


A World Alone

by anomalously



Series: Lincoln Park [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Ian, Brief Mention of Underage Prostitution, Confrontations, Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, Mention of Past Sexual Assault, Minor Violence, Original Character(s), Panic Attacks, Prostitution, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content, possible PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-03-23 01:45:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 74,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3750304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalously/pseuds/anomalously
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey is propositioned a business partnership by Angela, a madam from Lincoln Park, which will change the lives of his entire family and finally get them out of South Side. </p><p><b>New Ch. 18 Excerpt:</b><br/><i>Mickey feels like he’s been dropped in the middle of a Godfather movie. The house that Charlie found them is… ridiculous. It’s fucking huge; dark wood everywhere, heavy furniture, paintings covering the walls. He has no idea how many bedrooms there actually are —all he knows is it’s got this room that Angela calls a salon (which Mickey doesn’t think is right, because no one’s getting their fucking hair done and it doesn't smell like bleach). But whatever.</i><br/>(Further tags/warnings/characters will be updated as needed)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Proposition

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wrestling with this idea for a while now. Hope I didn't fuck it up. This is very experimental. Very.
> 
> Also... A World Alone, by Lorde.

 

Mickey sat in the farthest booth in the Alibi Room, nursing the last half of his beer while Kev worked to close up the place. It was late, most of the regulars had left except for Tommy and Kermit. Mickey really just needed to sit and think, which was why instead of taking his usual spot at the bar, he opted for a more comfortable and secluded seat.

It seemed like every day there was a new mouth to feed in the Milkovich house. Things were starting to get out of control, between the bills and the cold freezing out his girls upstairs above the bar. The only good thing about taking over the Rub-N-Tug business was that he was the only one making the decisions. But Kev was completely fucking him on the rent.

Mickey heard the door of the Alibi swing open. Grateful for the moment of distraction, he glanced over and pulled a face. The woman who walked into the bar had to have been fucking lost or something. She was way too classy for South Side. Her dark hair was long and done nice like the women in magazines… hell, she looked like she stepped right out of a magazine herself.

Kev had said something to her, but Mickey didn’t catch what. The woman smiled politely at him but kept walking towards Mickey, her movements completely effortless. She brushed her hair away from her face, looked over her shoulder at Tommy and Kermit with a mischievous little hello of a smirk, her hips swaying just enough when she walked. 

Kev shot Mickey a look, but all he could do was shrug in response as the woman took a seat across from him and grinned.

“Can I help you?” Mickey asked her, his eyebrows shooting upwards.

“I’m hoping you can,” she replied, her voice all silk. She extended her slim hand towards him, “I’m Angela. I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Milkovich.”

Mickey looked at the woman’s hand; her fingernails were all done up and shiny.

“That’s right, you’re not a hand-shaker, are you?” Angela laughed softly. 

“The fuck you know about me?” Mickey asked. 

Before Angela could respond, Kev called over from behind the bar, “Can I get you anything? Mick, you want another round? Last call.”

Angela shifted her eyes to Kev, “No thank you, I won’t be long.”

Mickey frowned; he was tempted to just fucking leave this bitch at the bar and head home. 

“So what’s a girl like you doing in South Side?” Mickey asked.

“I had an interesting conversation with your wife the other day.”

“You’d be the first,” Mickey snorted into his glass. 

The beer was growing warm, but still worth the last bits. He glanced over at the woman, seeing her frown for just an instant, clearly not appreciating his words. Mickey stopped himself before he could roll his eyes.

“I… offered her a job.”

It was like every muscle in his body tensed up. It wasn't what she said, but her tone that caught his attention and brought him to a full stop. If you weren’t in the kind of _hospitality_ business that Mickey was in, you probably would have missed it.

Mickey carefully put his glass back on the table top and looked over at Angela, letting her words hang in the air for a moment. “The fuck is this, a courtesy visit? You letting me know you’re trying to recruit my girls? The fuck you doing in South Side, picking up girls?”

Angela sighed softly, “I was here for unrelated business and this isn’t some kind of courtesy visit. Anyway, Svetlana turned down my job offer. I was surprised. It’s not like there’s a lot of money to make in this neighborhood. So I asked her who she works for, and here I am.”

“So what, are you like… one of those… madam’s?” 

“Oh sweetheart,” Angela laughed, sliding a white business card his way, “I’m a romantic.”

Mickey drew his brows together, glancing down at the card. He didn't pick it up, didn’t want to buy whatever the fuck she was selling, just wanted her to go away. “That’s not exactly a job title, lady.”

“I run a match-making business. Girls that go out with wealthy men, show them a good time, boost their egos, look good on their arm… fuck like porn-stars. You know,” Angela shrugged.

Mickey huffed a breathy laugh and shook his head, “I think you got the wrong guy. I’m not interested and I’m sure as fuck not rich-”

“But what if you could be? Doing what you do now. What we do.”

“You’re a madam-”

“I’m a pimp, Mr. Milkovich,” Angela stated simply. “Outside you see the fancy business card, the fancy office, the beautiful girls _‘looking for Mr. Right_ ’. Scrub away all the varnish and you and me, well… we’re doing exactly the same thing. I hate the term madam. A spade is a spade.”

Mickey lit up a cigarette, “So what the fuck do you want from me? Seems like you’re doing pretty good for yourself.”

“I’ve recently had a falling out with my business partner over some… incidents with my girls. I’ll spare you the details for now. He’s out for good, I’m looking for a new one. I’ve been having some problem clientele and I’m very picky about who works for me —and with me… hiring decent security for my girls has been proving to be difficult. You know how some men can be when they believe they own the world.”

Mickey nodded, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “You don’t know fuck all about me, first of all. But for some reason you think you do. Why the fuck should I care about _your_ girls? I got enough going on with my own. You shouldn't be in this business if you can’t handle it, _sweetheart_.”

She seemed to take in his words with a slight nod. “I do know you, Mickey,” Angela said, leaning forward. “When I come to South Side and offer a beautiful woman a chance to get the fuck out, and a much, _much_ better paying job and she turns me down because she feels safe where she currently is… it tells me all I need to know.”

Mickey was surprised to hear that, but he makes sure to keep his face passive. “Yeah, what’s that?”

“That even though you have no idea how to treat your girls, or how to speak to them… you know how to _not_ treat them. And no one touches them because they know better, because you make sure they do. Your girls feel safe, they told me,” Angela replied. “My girls don’t feel safe, and I’m in Lincoln Park. I can’t trust anyone with them, it’s been a nightmare these last two months. This is a business first… but I have a responsibility to my girls. And I’m failing them.”

Lincoln fucking Park? Fuck. Mickey knocked back the rest of his beer. He scoffed, “So what, you come to South Side to get yourself a fucking guard dog or something? Trying to scare all the rich motherfuckers with a South Side thug, keep them from slapping your girls around? Sorry lady, not interested in being your bitch. I mean, what the fuck is in it for me?”

Angela sighed, getting up from her seat, “I don’t want a guard dog, Mr. Milkovich. I want support —I want a business partner. I want my girls to not be terrified every time they are with a new client. I want to do business with someone who has a fucking spine. Someone who isn’t afraid to let those _rich motherfuckers_ know that they can’t take whatever they want just because of the size of their bank account. So, when you’re ready to make some _real_ money and get the fuck out of this hellhole… give me a call.”

Mickey crossed his arms in front of his chest, leaning back in his seat. 

“And Mickey…” Angela’s voice lowered, turned gentle. Her face a losing a little light, “Guys like you and Ian… you don’t last as long as you think you do, not in a neighborhood like this. You do know that, right?”

Her words felt like a knife in the throat. Mickey sniffed, rubbing his bottom lip with his thumb, “Fuck you,” he said, lighting up another cigarette.

And then she left, just like that. The white business card still sat in front of Mickey. Clean lines and stark black ink. Mickey picked the card up, plucked his lighter from the table top, flicking it to life a few times near the edge of the paper.

 

* * *

 

It was freezing outside, but the space heater in Mickey and Ian’s room worked overtime, probably should have been turned down a little bit. But it was too late for that now. 

There was nothing but heat and sweat between them, their bodies moving together perfectly, like always. Mickey was stretched out under Ian, one arm reached out in front of him, FUCK hand curled tightly around the headboard, reflecting his exact thoughts. Ian’s long body covered his back, face buried in the crook of his neck, one hand’s fingers digging into his hip. Every once in a while, that hand would slide up Mickey’s ribcage and keep trailing upwards until long fingers curled around his throat, then travel back down to it’s resting spot.

It was slow and deep, and rough and dirty, all at the same time. It was fucking raw and amazing, even when Mickey had a hard time catching his breath because of how goddamn hot it was in their room.

“Fuck, Mick,” Ian’s breath was hot like fire. He pushed inside Mickey, again and again hitting that spot that made the dark haired man see fucking constellations burst behind his clenched eyes.

Ian bit at him, his teeth scraping against Mickey’s pale skin, tongue smoothing over immediately after, tasting him, making them both groan low and long. Mickey wanted to turn to face him, wanted his boyfriends mouth to cover his own, to look in his eyes. But stopping, even for an instant, wasn’t an option. 

This was it, this was his favorite place to be, covered in sweat and Ian. Skin against skin, hot and messy; they were all hands and open mouths and hot breath, devouring each other like their lives depended on it. Like if they didn’t try to meld their bodies together, they wouldn't fucking survive the rest of the night.

That would be the sweetest of deaths though, as far as Mickey was concerned.

Ian’s grip on Mickey’s hip loosened, his hand slipping between damp sheets and slick skin to work his hand around Mickey, stroking in time with his deep thrusts. Mickey released the headboard so he could reach behind him and grab a handful of Ian’s hair, knowing what it did to the other man, how it drove him crazy. 

Ian’s paced picked up, pushing harder, pulling quicker, his mouth finding Mickey’s ear where he could rasp his hot breath and words that were only meant for them —filthy and loving words that Mickey refused to share with anyone else. Mickey would nod in return, grunting back his responses, giving in to the comfort that Ian tempted him with, the comfort to say exactly what he fucking felt, what he wanted.

It didn’t take much longer after that; they collapsed together, tingling and spent. Mickey laughed roughly against the pillows, his breath coming out in short bursts. Ian, still tangled around him, kissed and tongued up the back of his neck before rolling to the side of Mickey and cleaning them up.

“God damn, Gallagher,” Mickey panted, closing his eyes.

“God damn yourself,” Ian chuckled, reaching over to give Mickey’s ass a good slap.

They each pulled on a pair of boxers and shared a cigarette, chucking the flat sheet off the bed so they could just lay out together, propped against the headboard. Ian finally turned the space heater down. Mickey was suspicious that he purposely kicked it up so high in the first place.

Nothing was said for a while, the silence was comfortable. Mickey rested his U-UP hand on Ian’s thigh, his thumb making small circles. Ian’s arm draped across Mickey’s shoulders like they were a couple of high schoolers in the back row of the movies. For once though, Mickey let him just do it, knew that Ian liked to hold him like that sometimes, even though it made Mickey feel like a chick.

_Guys like you and Ian… you don’t last as long as you think you do, not in a neighborhood like this. You do know that, right?_

Mickey frowned as he took a long drag from the cigarette before passing it back to Ian. His mouth felt like it filled with acid, thinking about what Angela had said.

“This Lincoln Park bitch came into the Alibi tonight,” Mickey told Ian. “Wanted me to be her business partner or some shit.”

“Lincoln Park? What kind of business?”

Mickey shrugged, “Same shit I do now.”

Ian stilled, “For real? How did she find you?”

“Offered Svetlana a job. Svetlana turned it down. I guess she got curious about me. She gave me her card, but it kinda sounds like she’s looking for a fucking guard dog.”

Ian stayed quiet for a few moments. Mickey wished he’d say something.

“What are you gonna do?” Ian finally asked.

“Fuck if I know,” Mickey sighed, brushing the edge of his brow with his thumb. “I don’t know a damn thing about her. It’s weird, right? Shit like that doesn't just happen.”

“Maybe you don’t have to be so cynical about this. Sometimes good shit actually does happen. Did you talk to Svet?”

Mickey shook his head, “Not yet.”

“Well, maybe this is what you’ve been waiting for, Mick.” Ian suggested. “Yeah it’s random and weird, but fuck man… I’d at least hear what she has to say, go check it out. What can that hurt? She needs a little muscle, give her a little muscle. Cash in on that Lincoln Park money. Put Yev in a good school so he can get the fuck out of here.”

He had a point and Mickey had been thinking about all those things since Angela had left him sitting in that booth. Mickey sighed, again, scrubbing his face with the pads of his fingers, “I guess I’ll call her tomorrow. See what she has to say.”

Ian stubbed out the cigarette, “Just keep an open mind. You’re way too wound up for someone who just got the royal fucking treatment. I made this room a sauna for you, shithead.”

Mickey chuckled, rolling his eyes. “I fucking knew it. You’re a freak.”

Ian maneuvered so he was kneeling in front of Mickey, between his legs. His hands gripped the dark haired man’s thighs; with a rough jerk, he quickly pulled Mickey down the bed until his back lay flat on the mattress. Ian hovered over him, dipping his head down to press his lips and tongue against Mickey’s throat.

“But you taste and smell so fucking good when you’re like that ,” Ian breathed, pressing his hips down onto Mickey’s.

“Oh yeah?” Mickey laughed, closing his eyes. 

Ian always knew just the right spots to work with his teeth and tongue. His skin shuddered as Ian grunted and rocked against him again. Mickey ran his hands over Ian’s ribs, his hands dipping into the back of his boxers to grab onto the redhead’s ass and pull them together tighter.

“Mmhmm,” Ian hummed, his tongue sliding up to Mickey’s ear, dropping more of those words in just the right order to make Mickey’s breath hitched.

“You trying to beat a record or something?” Mickey asked.

“Why, you don’t have any fuck left in you, old man?” Ian smirked, backing up just enough to look at Mickey’s face. “You need a little blue pill or something?”

Mickey pressed his lips together, his eyebrows shooting up. 

Ian made the same face, his lips slowly curling in a wicked smile. 

“You’re a fucking dick,” Mickey laughed, wrapping his arms around the redhead in a bear hug, flipping so he was now the one looking down, his legs straddling Ian’s hips.

Mickey quickly spit into his hand and reached inside Ian’s boxers. He wrapped his hand around Ian’s quickly hardening length. He slid his grip up and down until Ian was panting for mercy; Mickey kept his blue eyes fixed on Ian’s green ones, silently daring the redhead to look away or move. Mickey didn’t have to say it, Ian understood.

But _fuck_ Ian looked so good, his pale freckled skin flushed, skin still holding a sheen. That red hair all over the fucking place, sticking up in directions that defied gravity.

Mickey leaned down and pressed his lips to Ian’s, his tongue slowly slipping out to taste his boyfriends mouth. It was such a lazy kiss, soft mouthed and gentle tongues. Mickey’s hand slipped from Ian’s boxers at one point, leaving them relishing in only each others mouths.

Only the sounds of heavy breathing and kissing fills the room. Mickey doesn't know how long he kisses Ian for, doesn't really fucking care either. 

“I love you,” Mickey murmurs into Ian’s mouth.

“I love you,” Ian says back.

 


	2. Minimum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The number was too big, it didn’t feel real, like if he said it out loud, he’d wake up and all this would have just been a memory of a dream he hadn't wanted to wake up from. He didn't even know what to do with that kind of cash.
> 
> “Minimum,” Angela said again. 
> 
> Mickey was starting to love that word

Ian got off work early to go with Mickey; he helped him pick which out of the three nice shirts he owned to wear —the dark blue one, of course, Ian liked him in blue. 

This was all after Ian fucked him in the shower —which was probably the most awkward and clumsy sex they’ve had in a long time. The tub was slippery and the shower curtain kept shifting towards them and clung to the sides of their arms and legs. But since Ian could tell that Mickey was a bit nervous about the dinner meeting, he made it his mission to relax him; in the end, they both laughed through most of the whole ordeal and Mickey did feel better, even if just for a moment. 

Angela made dinner reservations at one of those fancy restaurants in Lincoln Park. It was one of those places with undersized and overpriced portions, crisp white table linens, and a wait staff who forced themselves to act friendly in hopes of scoring a generous tip. Mickey had only seen these kinds of restaurants in movies.

He was uncomfortable, his whole body heating up like a furnace. Ian was, as expected, ever the chameleon, able to completely relax and adapt. He sipped on water and casually rested his arm on the back of Mickey’s chair, knowing that Mickey (probably) wouldn’t make a scene in a place this nice and tell him to knock it the fuck off.

Ordering something to drink was a fucking nightmare.

Ian and Angela exchanged a few rounds of pleasant small-talk while Mickey just sat and listened. They talked about how Ian was working to be a personal trainer, since he loved all that working out shit —Angela managed to point out how much money he’d be able to make in Lincoln Park; she had a point but Mickey suppressed the urge to roll his eyes anyway. That then segued into inane shit that was just stating the fucking obvious —how _beautiful_ Lincoln Park is, how _wonderful_ it was living there, how it was just _lovely_.

“Alright, you two want me to leave so you can talk more about the fucking weather? Or are we gonna talk business?” Mickey finally had enough.

“There he is,” Angela smiled slow. She took a sip of her wine, exchanging amused eyes with Ian. “What do you want to know, do you have any questions?” 

“Oh I got lots of fucking questions,” Mickey replied.

“Mick…” Ian sighed, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. He subtly gestured around the restaurant, giving Mickey a clear message.

“You’re wondering what the catch is,” Angela said.

Mickey nodded, “Yeah that too, but we’ll get to that later.”

“I’m just asking for myself,” Ian interrupted. “What’s the situation with your girls, exactly? And your old business partner —this is Mickey’s decision and all, but I just…”

“You want to make sure he’s not walking into a shit-storm.”

“Exactly.”

Angela sighed, straightened up a little in her seat and proceeded to explain her situation with her girls. Out of the ten girls that worked for her, in the last two months one girl had been assaulted, three knocked around pretty bad —one of those girls had her wrist broken. 

She had blacklisted the men who did this, but her attempts to have face-to-face meetings with them had been unsuccessful. It seemed that rich men who were used to getting what they wanted and doing what they pleased didn’t take Angela seriously, thinking they could send over a chunk of cash to call it even.

It made Mickey sick to his stomach. He glanced over at Ian, who had his fist tightly balled up in his lap, the muscle in his jaw working furiously.

If he did this, and there was a considerable part of him that really wanted a taste of that Lincoln Park money… if he did this, he was going to have to do some serious cleaning house. Weeding out clients that liked to hurt girls in this area was going to require careful planning, not just a home visit to knock the shit out of some rich asshole. He was going to have to get creative.

Then again, he could find the John that assaulted that one girl and make an example out of him. He knew people, including himself, that took that shit real serious, make it look like the prick had enough of his cushy life and six figure salary.

“I trusted the wrong guy to work with. Before these last two months, apparently he gave a handful of client’s the go-ahead to do whatever they wanted to my girls, as long as, you know… you could send a little extra money his way and there weren’t any significant marks on them afterwards. My girls never said anything to me because he had them too scared. And I mean… they’ve grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle. The thought of having that taken away, I’m sure, wasn’t ideal.”

“How the fuck could you not know this shit was going on?” Mickey steadied his voice, really tried to not yell in the middle of rich couples making heart eyes at each other.

“I wish I had an answer for you, I really do. I’ve been asking myself that every single day.” Angela’s face pulled in pain, her eyes watering. She took a deep breath, trying to collect herself. “I meet with my girls once a week for collections, keep in touch by phone and we don’t host clients at the office. For the most part, the girls are self sufficient, so… things can get overlooked and avoided pretty easily.”

“You let them hold onto money for a _week?_ ” Mickey balked, his eyebrows nearly climbed to his hairline. Was this lady insane?

“The appointments are set up through me. I know where they are, how much they make and how much they should be bringing me. Any gifts are theirs to keep —clients love to spoil them, so I let them.”

“How do you know they’re not uh… taking clients on the side?” Ian asked.

Angela smiled at Ian, tilting her head as if she were admiring a puppy.

Mickey laughed, catching on. “She’s got a snitch.”

“The best thing about smart girls with trusting faces and the ability to play dumb when necessary... is that if you throw them a little extra cash, they can find out anything, from anyone. That was the first smart thing I did after I got rid of that bastard.”

“How long were you working with that guy?” Ian asked.

Angela laughed bitterly. She took another sip of her wine and sighed, “Two and a half years.”

“They never went to the cops?” 

“Whores don’t go to the cops, man,” Mickey said.

“Even though I have an arrangement with the police that the girls know about… they know the attention it would bring. I wanted to go to the police, but the girls begged me not to. I probably should have went anyway,” Angela then turned her attention to Mickey, “You know, Mickey… for someone like you, you are _strangely_ misogynistic.” Angela frowned at the dark haired man.

Mickey pulled a face, “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“I just find it strange that someone like you —who would essentially liberate a whole massage-parlor full of sex workers because they weren’t being paid enough; who takes the safety of his girls as seriously as you do— is at the same time… misogynistic and just crude, really. That’s all I’m saying,” she shrugged simply. 

He didn’t know whether to take her words as insult or not, and it only pressed his irritation further. “Like I said before, you don’t know fuck all about me,” he scoffed.

Angela held up her pointer finger while she hauled her large purse up into her lap. Mickey and Ian exchanged a look. Mickey took a couple drinks of his beer and then frowned when the woman placed a thick manila folder on the table.

“Whoa,” Ian breathed a soft laugh, “Is that…”

Angela nodded, “Mickey, I told you that I knew you. You didn’t really think that I would proposition you for a business partnership without doing my homework, did you?”

“You pulled my fucking records?” Mickey’s eyebrows shot upwards for what seemed like the hundredth time that night, his voice a little louder than he had anticipated. Who the fuck was this bitch —or rather, who did she think she was? “Are you fucking with me right now?”

“No, I’m not fucking with you,” Angela stated.

She opened the folder and pulled out a few groups of papers that were stapled together. Whether intentional or not, Mickey’s leg started to bounce in effort to remain calm. 

He felt Ian’s fingers brush the back of his neck for an instant —an annoying little flutter washed over him from the contact. In times like this, he wished that his body wouldn't still react to his touch like that, when he was trying to be angry. 

The last thing he wanted Angela to do is start listing off all the shit he had pulled in the past. He wasn't ashamed of it, everyone knew who he was, what he’d done. But just having _that_ folder in this restaurant in _this_ part of town made him feel like he _should_ be ashamed.

As he glanced around at all the couples and families eating dinner and drinking expensive wine and laughing, he felt his chest tighten. Some women had their purses just sitting on the floor by their chairs, not a care in the world, not even worried someone would walk by and snatch it up. Little reflective flashes of credit cards and glass screens of phones glinted in the low light; he didn't see paper money anywhere. 

His own beer was poured into a glass that felt too delicate to hold; his plate with the last remnants of his perfectly cooked meal of steak and veggies had been taken away as soon as he had finished. Mickey didn’t know when it happened, but he all of a sudden he found it very hard to breathe.

“I don’t have the kind of money it takes to buy into your business,” he said in a rush. “I can’t do this… all this shit, this isn’t me-”

“Mick, it’s okay-”

“No, it’s not fucking okay,” Mickey shook his head, getting up from the table, “The fuck am I doing here, Ian? Look at me. Lincoln Park?”

Mickey was vaguely aware of how he was slowly drawing attention to himself. He rubbed at this mouth, taking a good look around. Ian reached for his hand, asking him to sit back down. 

Angela kept a soft face as she watched them, a slight smile forming when Mickey finally took his seat again. He felt hot all over and still wanted to leave, but he told Ian he would keep an open mind the other night, so that’s what he was going to do.

“I knew your financial situation from the beginning, Mickey,” Angela said. She handed Mickey the stack of papers that she had retrieved from the manila folder. 

He looked down at the papers with Ian leaning against his shoulder, peering down as well. To sum it all up, the papers stated that as an act of good faith, Angela would clean up his girls, make sure they were healthy and get them each three date outfits and new lingerie. 

They would bring all the girls together and proceed as business partners, but with Mickey keeping his girls’ profits; Angela keeping her own profits as well. Mickey would then pay Angela a portion of his take every month until he had successfully bought into the business and would then become an official partner. From there, he and Angela would put all the girls' profits together and it would be split equally between the two of them.

Mickey chewed at his bottom lip, letting Ian gently take the papers even though he hadn’t looked at the last page. “What do you mean by clean them up?”

“Well… they need some salon and spa time,” Angela replied. “My girls do monthly spa days and keep themselves primped —a standard set by filthy rich middle-aged men who’ve never stepped a foot inside a gym in their lives.”

“Fair enough,” Mickey sighed. He couldn't argue with that, “You’re slinging premium pussy, gotta make it fucking look good, huh? No one wants that sloppy-”

“Mick.”

Angela’s eyes widened, “We’re going to have to work on that.”

“I heard it that time,” Mickey admitted with a nod of his head.

“So what do you think?” Angela changed the subject after a brief pause, her face nothing less than hopeful. 

“A thousand dollars a night? For one girl?” Ian gasped, hitting the back of his hand against Mickey’s shoulder.

“Minimum,” Angela grinned. “And it’s more like a thousand dollars for a… date. My girls have to go on, at the very least, three dates a week and they keep thirty percent of each client’s payment. No underage clients, no one underage works for me, and if someone is looking for a little something different than what I offer… I outsource and collect a ten percent finders-fee. No freebies, no family discounts, no exceptions. And like I said, the cops aren’t a problem, we have an arrangement that’s already set, that you don’t even have to worry about.”

Mouth going completely dry, Mickey didn’t bother to stop his jaw from dropping. The numbers ran through his head quickly —he was good with numbers, always had been. 

“Every week, you’re raking in…” he didn't even want to say it out loud. 

The number was too big, it didn’t feel real, like if he said it out loud, he’d wake up and all this would have just been a memory of a dream he hadn't wanted to wake up from. He didn't even know what to do with that kind of cash.

“Minimum,” Angela said again. 

Mickey was starting to love that word. “Fuck,” he breathed.

“South Side is too small for someone like you, Mickey,” Angela said. “For someone like you too, Ian. The pair of you, I know you probably don’t believe me… but, you two look damn good in a place like this. Both of you could get your families out, make a good life in a good neighborhood. Send a couple kids to college. Make a family. Stop worrying about being who you are, where you live.”

He probably replayed her words in his head a dozen times before he spoke, “What’s the catch?” 

Angela didn’t answer, Ian did. “Mick, you know how they say that things get worse before they get better? Maybe this is when things start getting better.”

“This is mutually beneficial,” Angela said. “You accused me of wanting a South Side guard dog… and I’m going to level with you, that was very appealing to me at first, before I starting digging into places in your life that I had no business —and I’m truly sorry for that, but I had to make sure I wasn’t making the same mistake.”

Mickey took a deep breath, ran his tongue against the backs of this teeth, “Feels like it’s too fucking good to be true.”

“I understand. Ian is holding legal business contracts and I’m trusting you to be my partner in something I helped create from the ground up,” Angela paused when the waiter came by to refill her wine. “It’s a risk for me too, to have you and your girls around mine, to offer you a partnership, sharing my client list, to disclose all this information that I have. This is a _huge_ risk that I’m willing to take.”

“You’d willingly bring in some thug from South Side who didn’t even fucking finish high school?” Mickey asked.

Angela rolled her eyes, “Least important thing about you, Mickey. Most of my clients are Ivy League graduates and a good portion of them are the least interesting, most ignorant pieces of shit I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.”

Despite himself, Mickey smiled. He looked over at Ian, who had kept quiet for a long time, silently supporting him, arm still resting on the back of his chair. 

He did look good in this place. 

All those things that Angela talked about, getting their families out of South Side, sending some of them to college… maybe one day they could have their own family, just the two of them and Yev and maybe a little girl. Maybe.

Terry would be out of prison soon —less than a year, last time he checked. The thought made Mickey nauseous, made him start to sweat, made him want to close up inside himself. His father would come back to the Milkovich house as soon as he got out and who the fuck knows what would happen then. There’d be blood and pain and fear. Lots of it.

Ian’s hand pressed gently against his shoulder, pulling him back to safety.

In the grand scheme of things… what exactly did he have to lose, money he didn’t have in the first place? A life he didn’t have in the first place? If it didn't work out, he’d figure something out, he’d get back up and make money another way. He was good at that, making plans, making money in a tight spot, scraping together just enough to live off of.

Mickey should have gotten Ian, Svetlana and Yev out of there ages ago, but the money just never fully came together for it. Every time he found somewhere decent enough, something happened to make it not possible. 

If he took Angela’s offer, he and Ian could get a place all to themselves. Svetlana and Nika could get their own place too. They could shuffle Yev between the households like a couple of suburban divorcees.

“You don’t have to sign anything now, Mickey,” Angela said, taking the papers when Ian handed them back to her. She took out one of those crisp white business cards from her purse, scribbled something on the back and then slid it over in front of Mickey. “When… if you decide that you’re ready to, though… come by the office.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhat of a necessary filler(ish) chapter.  
> Promise we'll see more characters in the next chapter :)


	3. Gallagher Family Dinner Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While he spoke with his brother, Ian’s hand reached over and rested on Mickey’s thigh, his thumb making small circles. Mickey wrapped his hand around the redhead’s, tangling their fingers together. By nature, he wasn’t a big hand-holder, it just wasn’t something he grew up with. But it felt right with Ian; their hands just kinda fit together like that.

The Gallagher’s threw their recently habitual family dinner over the weekend, always on a Saturday night, when everyone was relatively free. They brought together as many tables as they could find to fit the ever-growing family that Mickey still had a hard time believing he claimed as his own.

It was loud. It was always loud, but this particular Saturday, the Gallagher’s seemed to be shaking the house. Mickey was used to the yelling now. In the Milkovich house, when Terry was at home, family conflicts were solved with fists and guns pointed at temples. The Gallaghers yelled and stomped their feet like children. But if you pushed hard enough, or threw Frank in the mix, someone was likely to throw a punch. 

Frank isn't invited to family dinners anymore. Not since Lip and Ian had to drag Mickey away from the drunk before he beat him to death. In all fairness, everyone should have seen it coming. Ian and Frank just couldn't be in the same room as each other for more than ten minutes. The difference between years ago and now though, was that Mickey Milkovich was in love with Ian Gallagher. And that statement in and of itself said everything you needed to know.

Like an assembly line, there’s macaroni and cheese that Debbie made from scratch; and chicken cutlets that Kev and V brought over; and vegetables with too much salt; and about five or six other dishes that all look fucking delicious. But no one is eating anymore, except for the littlest ones, the twins and Yev and Liam. Everyone’s too busy yelling. 

It started when Carl came home to dinner late, looking like he had just went a few rounds with a sledgehammer. The kid got the usual sighs and eye rolls from his family, then the house erupted in simultaneous lectures about keeping himself out of trouble.

Evidently Carl had gotten into a fight with this kid over some weed and pills. As Carl had explained very simply in his low, easy rasp, “When I say seventy-five bucks, I expect seventy-five bucks. Not sixty-five, not seventy and an IOU. Seventy-five fucking dollars, in my hand, cash money. You try to rob me, shit happens.”

Mickey nodded, looking over at Ian, “Well, I mean… yeah.”

“For fucks sake, Mickey, we’re trying to get Carl to _not_ be like you! Don’t fucking encourage him,” Lip had shot at him from across the table. He was always, still, trying to start with Mickey.

If Yev hadn’t been sitting on Mickey’s knee, he would have reached over and knocked the stupid smirk off of the oldest Gallagher boy’s face. Instead Mickey raised a middle finger, “Ay, why don’t you go back to whatever whore you’re banging nowadays, College. Though it must be fucking hard to keep track of who you’re sticking it in, what with all of them tired of your ass. Fucking joke, man.”

“What’s that? Hard to hear you with my brothers dick in your mouth.”

For a long moment, the house quieted, the air around them violently tense. 

Deb’s little “Oh shit,” was barely heard.

Mickey laughed without an ounce of humor, he caught his tongue in the corner of his mouth, rubbed his hand over his lips. The knife sitting by his plate was looking better and better. Maybe if he threw it hard enough, at just the right angle, he could catch Lip in the jugular.

“Motherfucker, the only thing separating you and death right now is my son.”

“Whatev-”

“Lip, shut the fuck up,” Ian glared hard at his brother. Mickey saw his fists ball up painfully on top of the table, Ian’s shoulders tense and ready. 

The beauty about the oldest brothers of the Gallagher clan being so close was that they weren’t afraid of each other, neither one of them were afraid to throw the first punch. Ian and Lip were close; for a moment they drifted apart, but it didn't last long, it never did. They got into a good brotherly-beating last Christmas and it sorted itself out. The Gallagher kids tried to stop it, begged Mickey to step in while they threw each other around the living room. 

Despite the kids knowing their brothers, knowing how things worked between them, it scared them. Mickey hadn't stepped in. Ian could handle himself, so could Lip —and it wasn't like they were aiming to kill each other. Besides, Ian after a fight was Mickey’s third favorite Ian, right behind Ian at three in the morning and Ian making terrible puns.

“Uh-uh! We’re not doing this tonight,” Fiona cut in. She pointed at Carl, “You, go clean up and come back down to eat. Liam, eat those vegetables, I’m not gonna tell you again. Deb, pass me the bread, please.”

Fiona had recently also, along with instating the Gallagher Saturday Family Dinner Night, had finally reclaimed her matriarchal status amongst the Gallagher kids. She’d gotten a little lost for a while, not that Mickey could really blame her. Anyone would eventually crack under that kind of pressure at that young of an age. She’d gotten lost for a while, but she found her way back home, in time to try to make it right for the youngest ones in the brood.

Lip and Mickey shared one last glare before going back to their meals. Yev sat, still as ever, and chomped happily on his food, showing his father handfuls of peas and chicken. Mickey dipped his head down and pressed his cheek against his sons blond hair, kissing his temple. He was a good kid.

Ian initiated a different conversation, asking Deb how school was going. 

Carl came down later, blood scrubbed off to show a split through his swollen and bruised brow, and scrapes across his jaw. His knuckles were a mess. He took the empty seat next to Lip, across from Ian and overloaded his plate with food he’d only eat half of; he nodded once at Mickey in greeting, which he returned. 

Mickey felt eyes on him from the head of the table. Fiona was giving him those big, _please help me_ eyes, gesturing towards Carl. Mickey sighed, his face falling.

Most of the Gallaghers had it in their heads that Carl would only take anything seriously if it came from Mickey. Maybe they had good reasons to think that, maybe they didn’t, but when things always started looking a little troublesome for Carl, Fiona always looked to Mickey first.

And even though he had _no_ authority of telling someone they were heading down a bad path, and he himself had dealt _various_ drugs for a good portion of his life, Mickey gave in like always. Because the last thing anyone wanted to see was Carl getting in too deep with the wrong kind of people, or worse… do something that cannot be undone.

“When’d you get back into dealing?”

“Few weeks,” Carl shrugged, “Why, you looking for something?”

“Nah, man, nothing like that,” Mickey sighed. He shifted Yev to his other knee until the kid started reaching and calling for Ian. Ian never denied Yev anything, so he promptly scooped him into his own lap. “I just thought you were out of that shit.”

“Easy money.”

Mickey shrugged, “High risk.”

“And pimping isn’t?” Carl laughed.

“Mickey’s an adult,” Ian said, “He understands the risks. You, small child, do not.”

Carl pulled a face, “That is the most bullshit line, I’m not some kid anymore-”

“Then why are you still acting like one, huh? You need money, find another way… shit, go talk to Linda, I’m sure she’ll find _something_ for you to do. I’ll vouch for you as long as you don’t fuck it up.”

“I’m not trying to waste my time at the Kash and Grab.”

Mickey rolled his eyes at the kid, “You find an actual job with an actual fucking paycheck and I’ll let you come hang around the Rub and Tug and learn something from me.”

“No shit?” Carl’s eyes went wide.

“Just no asking stupid fucking questions,” Mickey pointed at a grinning Carl, “I know you like to do that shit.”

Fiona frowned, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“You want him dealing instead of hanging out with Mickey when he’s not working?” Ian asked his sister. “Linda will give him a part-time job after school.”

“I’m not going back to school-”

“You’re going to school,” the entire table cut Carl off.

While Debbie, Liam and Carl started to clear the table (it was their turn this week, last week it had been on Fiona, V and Kev), Yev squirmed down from Ian’s lap, toddling over with Kev and V’s twins to play in the space under the stairs. Yev _loved_ the twins, always keeping his big watchful blue eyes on them.

Ian talked with Lip and Kev about his job at this little gym that opened up months ago, doing mostly bitch work while he paid his dues to become a trainer, but in the long run it would be worth it. His boss was some kind of crazy ass vegan douchebag, and most of the women thought that Ian was just the most adorable thing they had ever seen. 

They liked to touch Ian on the shoulder or upper arms, feel his muscles under his shirts —Mickey would give Ian shit about it all the time, how all the MILF’s wanted a piece of that. It was funny until Ian shot back one day about how the DILF’s wanted a piece too. That night, Mickey had made sure Ian knew who he belonged with, three times —not that Ian needed any convincing, but Mickey couldn't help it. 

While he spoke with his brother, Ian’s hand reached over and rested on Mickey’s thigh, his thumb making small circles. Mickey wrapped his hand around the redhead’s, tangling their fingers together. By nature, he wasn’t a big hand-holder, it just wasn’t something he grew up with. But it felt right with Ian; their hands just kinda fit together like that.

“How’s business?” Lip then turned to Mickey, that self-righteous smirk on his face.

“Fucking fine. How’s that job going, Mr. Roboto?” Mickey shrugged, “Still making no fucking money?”

Lip huffed a dry laugh, “I’m making more money than you do, Omar.”

“Damn,” Ian chuckled, squeezing Mickey’s hand.

Mickey barked a laugh, “See, I ain’t even mad at that, that was fucking good, man.”

“You like that?” Lip grinned, “I’ve uh… I’ve been keeping that on hold; started watching The Wire a couple weeks ago.”

“I can tell,” he nodded. Sometimes Lip wasn’t so bad. Sometimes.

Ian tugged on Mickey’s hand, “Come smoke with me.”

They excused themselves from the table, leaving everyone in the middle of the loud Gallagher-style conversations. Ian told Deb to keep a lookout for Yev while they were smoking —unneeded, but it made the pair of them feel better.

As soon as Ian closed the back door behind them, Mickey pressed him against the frame, his hand reaching up to grab the back of Ian’s neck, fingers brushing into that hair he couldn't get enough of; he ached to touch it, feel the strands of hair catch between his fingers while he made a fist, feel it against his belly. Ian had been leaving out the product recently, so it felt so fucking soft and good under his touch.

Mickey pressed into Ian, slanting his mouth against the redhead’s, needing to taste that Ian taste he’d grown addicted to. They each swallowed the others groans, Mickey feeling his stomach bottom out, like it always fucking did, every fucking time. He just tasted so good, their tongues sliding against each other in a way that Mickey knew made Ian ready to go right then and there. It was easy for Mickey to get him going, he’d had a lot of practice.

Ian grabbed his hip, fingers digging into him, pulling him even closer. The other hand cradled the back of Mickey’s head. He groaned low as if it were being carved out of his belly, pressing his mouth harder against Ian’s; he reached between them and cupped Ian through his jeans, pressing tightly against the texture of them denim. Ian grunted and bit at his lips, trying to pull Mickey even closer, trying to create just a little bit more friction.

“Fuck,” Ian breathed.

Then Mickey grinned against Ian’s mouth for a moment, a brief moment, before breaking away, leaving the redhead panting and flustered. He loved a good quick fucking-around as much as the next guy, but he’d been interrupted by a stray Gallagher enough times to know that any minute, one of those fuckers would walk out for a smoke also.

They’d have to go home as soon as they could. Ian was in for a long night.

Mickey pulled out a cigarette, lit up and passed it to Ian after he took a drag. 

“It’s freezing out here,” Ian mumbled, huddling close to Mickey.

“This was your idea, firecrotch.”

Ian chuckled, nodding his head. He reached over and hooked his finger in one of Mickey’s belt loops, just letting his hand hang there.“You’re really gonna let Carl hang around with you, huh?”

“He’s the only fucking Gallagher that listens to me,” Mickey shrugged.

“You’re like the South Side Superman to him,” Ian laughed.

Normally, it would make Mickey roll his eyes and grin, but this time it just stilled something deep inside; he didn't know what it was, but it was enough to make Ian bump his shoulder with his own. 

“You okay?”

Mickey rubbed at his lips, trying to pull the words from them, “I dunno man. In my head… I keep fucking going back to the other night. Angela, all that shit.”

“You thinking you wanna do it?”

He did. He really did. But he’d be selling out, wouldn't he? Mickey gave Lip so much shit, even still called him College despite it not even applying anymore. He was Mickey Milkovich, South Side till he died, right? It was all he ever knew.

“What would you do?” Mickey asked, already knowing the answer.

“Me, I’d do it. But this is you, and I know how much you love this neighborhood. I know what you’re thinking right now, but you can’t really think about it like selling out, Mickey. You gotta do what feels like the best move. Either way, I’m not going anywhere, it’s not gonna shake me off.”

That made Mickey smile, feel a little lift in his chest that maybe everything would work out, one way or another. He hadn't really worried about any of this effecting his relationship with Ian, but it still felt good to hear it from him.

“This your ride or die moment?” Mickey teased.

“Yeah, this is my ride or die moment,” Ian mumbled with a grin, “You’re my best friend, man. Stop smiling at me, asshole. I fucking hate you.”

Mickey laughed, meeting Ian halfway to brush their lips together, “Yeah well, the feeling is mutual, fuckhead.”

The back door swung open. Lip stepped onto the little landing of the back porch and lit up his own cigarette. 

“What’s going on?” Lip asked through the cloud of smoke streaming from his mouth.

“He’s trying to decide if he’s gonna partner up with that Lincoln Park madam,” Ian replied. 

Mickey knocked the back of his hand against Ian’s shoulder, “I thought we weren’t gonna tell anyone about that shit.”

“Where have you been?” Lip chuckled, “He tells me everything. I knew about you two fucking since like… fuck, since Kash shot you.”

His eyebrows pulling together sharply, Mickey hit his idiot boyfriend’s shoulder again. They had agreed that they wouldn't say anything to anyone about the possible partnership, just in case Mickey declined the offer. What the fuck was the matter with his boyfriend. Mickey grunted. The redhead gave a little guilty smile and shrug.

Fiona yelled for Ian from inside the house, something about the DVD player not working. Mickey was about to go with him, but Ian leaned over and pressed his lips to his temple and told him he’d be right back, leaving Mickey standing on the platform with Lip. Fucking great. 

“So uh… what’s to think about? I thought it was against the Milkovich code of thuggery to pass up a chance to make money,” Lip pulled on his cigarette, his face perpetually set in that _everyone fucking bow down to me_ way of his. Mickey couldn't decide if it was just the way his face was, or if it was Lip's actual train of thought. He assumed the latter.

“Fuck off,” Mickey shook his head; Lip was literally the last person he wanted to talk to about this kind of thing. “This is bigger than cash, man.”

“Okay, you’re gonna pass up a chance to give your kid a decent fucking life because uh… because you don’t wanna sell out? Is that it? You wanna stick around and rot in South Side for the rest of your life?”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about? Yeah I do,” Lip scoffed. “You’re smarter than you look, man. Don’t be an idiot, you know what the right move is. Sign the fucking papers.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically... writing the Lip-Mickey banter is my favorite.


	4. The Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey didn't have anything brand new. The shirt he wore had started off as one of Colin’s before making it’s way down the line; once upon a time it had been a long sleeve button down, but when it finally made its way to Mickey, the sleeves had already been ripped away, leaving a rough edge behind. Angela’s clothes didn't have any rough edges like that, they probably never did.

Mickey had done his best to clean up the Milkovich house, even though Ian and Svetlana tended to keep the place decently tidy. As tidy as you could fucking keep the place, anyway. He made sure there was nothing questionable on the couch cushions or in the bathroom and ran a wet sponge over the kitchen counters and table, mentally punching himself in the face because fuck this bitch if she couldn't deal with a little mess, right?

He’d called Angela last night after getting back from the Gallagher’s dinner. There were still some things that weren’t sitting right with him, things he didn't understand or know about what he was walking into. Mainly, not knowing any fucking thing about Angela. It wasn’t very fair, since she knew literally everything about him, thanks to his fucking wife.

If it were just him that he had to look out for, he would have already signed the papers and would have been done with it. It was a smart move when you got past the selling-out stigma that kept pulling Mickey back. Getting out of South Side, cashing in on that Lincoln Park money… it all made sense. But he wasn't the only one this would be effecting; this decision was bigger than money alone. Everyone he loved had a whole fucking life in South Side, and he was just going up uproot them, just like that —without questioning anything else? No. He couldn't afford to fuck this up. And if that meant he had to be overly cautious, then so be it.

“What’re you doing? You cleaning?”

Mickey swore heavily when Iggy’s sleepy voice piped up suddenly. He wasn’t supposed to be here, he knew that.

“Iggy, what the fuck, you’re supposed to be gone. I told you, I got someone coming over,” Mickey sighed.

Iggy pulled an odd face, “Who?”

He rolled his eyes at his older brother, “Ain’t like that, man, come on. Can you please fucking go somewhere, it’s business.”

“A’ight, I gotta go with Colin on a run anyways,” he mumbled before walking towards the bathroom.

“You got twenty minutes, bitch!” Mickey called after him.

He lit up a cigarette, his third one that morning, and slouched back on the couch. Iggy was out of the bathroom, and out of the door within ten minutes, raising both middle fingers as he went; Mickey returned the gesture with a smirk.

Angela was irritatingly on time, a soft knock cutting through the dead quiet of the mostly empty house. She greeted him with a warm smile, her eyes quickly scanning the interior. Mickey couldn't tell what she was thinking and it bothered him. Probably nothing good, she was most likely used to things being spotless and brand new. 

Mickey didn't have anything brand new. The shirt he wore had started off as one of Colin’s before making it’s way down the line; once upon a time it had been a long sleeve button down, but when it finally made its way to Mickey, the sleeves had already been ripped away, leaving a rough edge behind. Angela’s clothes didn't have any rough edges like that, they probably never did.

“Thanks for coming down here,” Mickey said. 

He had to go into the Alibi in a couple hours and didn't have time to go all the way to Lincoln Park to have a conversation. That, and he kind of needed this to be on his own turf. Luckily Angela had someone who could fill in for her at the office.

She smiled, “No problem. Is it okay if I sit?”

Mickey nodded, gesturing toward the kitchen able. He went to the fridge and grabbed a couple beers, putting one in front of Angela. Despite the fact that it was half past ten in the morning, she accepted it.

“Is everything okay?” Angela asked.

Mickey nodded, taking a seat across from her, “Yeah I just wanted to get some shit clear, before I made a decision.”

She nodded, “That’s fair.”

“What happened to your old business partner?” he asked, getting right to it. No need in beating around the bush and all that shit.

“I told you, he’s out. He’s gone,” her response was careful. 

Mickey frowned, “See, here’s the thing… you know all this shit about me and I don’t know anything about you, so you need to be _real_ fucking honest with me right now. You tell me that your old business partner is gone. The fuck’s that mean exactly?”

She sighed, cracking open her beer, “It means he’s gone, Mickey.”

“You kill him?”

“No.”

“You get someone else to kill him? That why you were in South Side?”

She didn’t answer, but her eyes glassed over, the muscles in her jaw working viciously. And that was enough.

“Right,” Mickey nodded. “That the first time? I’m not looking to be killed off by a professional anytime soon, if I make a mistake. See, I got a fucking family I got to look out for.”

“It was the first time,” Angela said, her voice weak, eyes a little too wide as if she were waiting for him to snap or something. “And the last time.”

Mickey let her words soak into the air for a moment. Because what the actual fuck. 

On one hand, in the grand scheme of things, the world losing a scum-bag pimp with a penchant for letting his girls get hurt wasn’t a huge loss. Mickey couldn't give two fucks about it, he grew up around violence and crime and yeah, a good amount of things that no one was supposed to talk about. 

People sometimes forgot that about him nowadays because he’d found something that made him smile. Sometimes, when he got wrapped up in Ian or wrapped up in a Terry-free life, he was tempted to forget that about himself too. But then those Milkovich roots would creep back in, one way or another, and coil around his throat, force him to look at who he was at his core.  

On the other hand... of _fucking_ course this was how this was going to play out.

The hit wasn’t as shocking as it  _probably_  should have been. What was shocking was that Angela, who was so beautiful (he was gay, not fucking blind) and was as well put together and calm as she was, could go through with ordering said hit on someone. It had to be eating her insides all up, people like her weren’t built for that. 

Unless… she was built for that shit and this was all a fucking show.

“I ain’t gonna ask you his name, don’t want any part of that shit. But, thing is… you’ve been pretty fucking zen for someone who’s recently ordered a hit for the first time,” Mickey said. “Got me thinking that you’re more than what you’re showing. And I don’t have a lot of fucking time for liars.”

“I did what I had to do,” she said, her voice hollow; she wiped at the corner of her eye. “He was a monster.”

They both snapped their gazes at each other as soon as she said it. 

Mickey tilted his head to the side, catching his tongue in the corner of his mouth. There it fucking was. “You said you trusted him.”

“I was wrong to, I told you that.” Like she was reading it off a piece of paper.

Mickey shook his head, “No… you said trusted him before. Now you’re saying he was a monster. So, I’m real fucking curious about who the fuck you are.”

Angela wrapped both her hands around her beer bottle, her eyes not meeting his.

“Were you his first whore —his girlfriend, wife, sister, what?”

She frowned at him, her brows drawing together sharply. He kept her gaze until her eyes flicked away. 

“Fine," she finally said. "I started working for him when I was sixteen. He always liked me the most, out of all the girls. Eventually he started showing me the business side of it, and by the time I turned twenty-one, I was working  _with_  him more than  _for_  him. But he was always letting us girls get roughed up in exchange for cash or drugs --he had a taste for heroin; he'd terrorize us with threats and guns… you know the drill.”

Mickey lit up a cigarette, letting her say her piece.

“After a few more years, I had become his official, legal business partner. And that lasted for two and a half years before I… woke up. I came into the office a few months back and he’s got these three  _beautiful_  girls sitting in his office. I’d never seen them before, but they looked confused and scared, and it just wasn’t sitting right. Turns out they were underage, like I had been, the youngest one just turned fifteen. And when I confronted him about it… well,” Angela stopped for a moment.

She didn't cry. She didn't really do anything. 

“When I confronted him about it, let’s just say that he reminded me of my place, made an example out of me to the rest of the girls,” she pulled her hair back away from her temple, showing a thin, short scar there, “Fucker pistol-whipped me, amongst other things. I guess you can say it was kind of a wakeup call, and I knew that I had to get myself and the girls out of that situation before one of us ended up dead. But there was only one way of doing that.”

Mickey ran a hand over his face, letting her story soak into him for a few moments. “So you came to South Side for a mechanic,” He probably knew whoever it was.

“I did. He didn't have a problem with getting the job done, but then afterwards he asked me why I didn't go to the Milkovich’s. Because Mickey Milkovich, the pimp, has no patience for men who like to hurt girls. He spoke pretty highly of you and your family, in that, you know, _don't fuck with them_ sort of way.”

It shouldn't have made him laugh, but it did. Fucking Maguire. They guy was always running his fucking mouth, which was weird, considering what he did for money.

“So after doing a little digging, I found Svetlana was connected to you --married to you. And it was just all falling together when I needed it most, like fate or something, I don’t know, but I had to figure out if what I was told about you was true. And if it was true, I had to figure out how someone could get that kind of reputation in a neighborhood like this. I guess I thought maybe I could learn something, I’m not sure what I was thinking, but I was desperate — _am_  kind of desperate.  Then the longer I talked to Svetlana and a couple other girls, the more it became obvious that what I needed was _you_ , for my girls sake."

Mickey chewed on his bottom lip; he exhaled a long breath.

"That’s it. That’s the truth, Mickey, I swear.”

“And what, asking Svetlana if she wanted a job was a test?”

“In a way,” she answered.

Mickey didn’t really know how or what to feel, “Fuck. Okay,” he sighed, looking around his kitchen, “Okay… what’s the deal with the cops?

“Pretty straight forward. Send them some cash, a couple free fucks a month --it's easy though, with our clientele, everyone's connected and willing to shell out money for problems to go away. But we keep the cops decently satisfied and they leave us alone. The girls don’t have any issue with it because well, they don’t want us to get shut down anymore than I do. So they take it in turns.”

“What do they know about the guy just disappearing all of a sudden?”

“Well, since he  _overdosed_ … no one’s asking questions. The cops, or the girls… the girls have no idea what I did. They’re kind of relieved about it, honestly… but I don’t want them to know.”

At this point, for the first time since meeting her, Mickey watched Angela slouch back in her seat and relax a little, she took a couple breaths, this time not wiping away tears that slid down her cheeks. 

Mickey wasn't exceptionally good at dealing with crying women. When he saw a woman crying, the only thing he could really see were faded memories of his mother huddled down in a corner, screaming and crying while Terry wailed on her.  So whenever something reminded him of those memories, he did whatever it took to make it stop. He didn't think about his mom anymore for a reason, didn’t talk about her either, not even with Ian. He couldn’t.

He reached out, his U-UP hand rested a little awkwardly on top of Angela’s hand. It only lasted a moment, enough to grab her attention, enough to make her stop, before he pulled back, his tongue catching in the corner of his mouth. Ian was better at making people feel safe, he was better at the whole comforting thing.

“You should have just fucking told me,” Mickey said.

Her laugh had anything but life in it, “Told you that I started off as a _whore?_ You know that you wouldn't have taken me seriously. I had to bait you like I did, playing the damsel in distress card. Coming to you as the  _poor little rich whore_ would have just made you send me away right off the bat.”

“You don’t know that,” Mickey mumbled, though he knew she was right.

“We both know that. I’m sorry that I played you like I did… but it was the only way to get your attention and to show you that I’m _serious_ … that this offer _is_ serious. You’re what I need to make this work. I don’t trust anyone, Mickey. And I can’t do this by myself, I’m willing to admit that I’m in over my head. Because unfortunately I don’t exactly fit the criteria to have wealthy men take me seriously. You do.”

“I’m gonna need a little time. I don’t like being fucking played,” Mickey sighed, shaking his head. He had to talk to Ian about this, and Svetlana —unfortunately her opinion and input on this mattered almost as much as Ian’s did, with her being Yev’s mother and all.

“I swear to you that I will never lie to you again. From here on out, I promise, everything is out in the open,” Angela said, meeting his eyes. “What you know about me now, you know that it can ruin me.”

She had a point; even if the guy’s death looked like an overdose, even if this was all yet another lie (Mickey knew it was the truth though), it would bring too much attention to her business. One way or another, this information getting out _would_  ruin her. 

“Were you ever gonna tell me?”

“Not if I could've avoided it,” Angela replied. “I’m trusting you with basically my life and career. Tell you the truth, I wish I hadn't done it. It had to be done, but I was always kind of hoping that he’d do it himself, you know? But that’s on my hands now.”

Angela left shortly after that, apologizing a good three more times before she did. Mickey didn't really know how to feel. Things made a little more sense, and he wasn’t about to get hung up on a lie about something that, in his mind, was completely justified. 

If he were in Angela’s position, that shit would have gotten done years ago, but the only difference was that Mickey would have done it himself. 

So how could he fault her for taking care of her own? 

He couldn’t. 

 

* * *

 

“She had her old business partner killed,” Mickey tells Ian later that night.

Ian had been in the middle of brushing his teeth, poised over the sink. Yev was toddling up and down the hallway, babbling on about the bucket he was carrying. Svetlana was out with Nika somewhere, had been for an hour. It was a boys night at the Milkovich house.

When Mickey told Ian that Angela had the guy killed, Ian choked on his toothbrush. 

“She what?” his voice came out muffled and a bit of watery toothpaste popped onto the mirror above the sink, making Mickey pull a face.

“She had him killed,” he repeated.

“You’re fucking with me,” Ian stared at him. “…you’re  _not_  fucking with me.”

“I’m not fucking with you,” Mickey sighed. “You can’t tell Svet though. This is just between you and me, okay?”

Ian nodded, spitting into the sink, “Good reason?”

Mickey nodded, “Woulda done it myself if I were her.”

Ian sighed, rinsed out his mouth and folded his arms under his chest, “Do you trust her? I mean... do I have to worry about her trying the same shit with you?”

The truth was, he trusted her more now than he had before. “She's not gonna try that with me.”

“It’s not gonna bite anyone in the ass?”

“It was a solid job,” Mickey replied, “I know the guy who did it. He… made it fit.”

And just like that, Mickey knew that it was enough for Ian. But just in case there had been any doubt, the redhead had lifted his shoulders and said, “I trust you.”

Mickey told Ian about the guy —the dead guy whose name he didn't know, didn't want to know so if there ever was a cold day in hell where people started asking questions, he could say that he didn't know who the fuck that was. 

He told Ian about the kind of man Angela’s business partner had been and why she did what she did. With anyone else other than Mickey and Ian, the conversation probably would have gone in a totally different direction. With anyone else, they would have been horrified or at the very least hesitant. 

But Mickey had Ian’s trust, just like Ian had Mickey’s. So the conversation about Angela ordering a hit on a man she knew for a good portion of her life came out more matter-of-fact than a shocking tale of a drugged up abuser of a pimp who should have been taken out years ago. 

When Mickey finished with a shrug, Ian took a moment before he chanced a small, hopeful grin, “So does that mean…”

“How do you feel about leaving this fucking shithole and getting a place of our own in Lincoln  _fucking_  Park?” Mickey couldn't even try to stop himself from smiling. A wave of giddiness just washed over him, seeing Ian with that wide smile.

“Fuck,” Ian breathed, his hands rubbing over his face and hair, that smile never leaving. He reached out for Mickey, wrapping his arms around him tightly, laughing into the crook of Mickey’s neck, completely relaxing into him. Ian was warm and felt so fucking good; Mickey squeezed tighter, inhaling the scent of the redhead.

He buried his face against Ian’s shoulder, laughing when he felt tiny arms wrap around his leg. Mickey reached down with one hand to cup the back of Yev’s little blond head, feeling this good type of numbness take over his whole body. He kinda wished he could just stay there with his boys, just stay like that forever. His boys; Mickey grinned to himself.

“Daddy up!” Yev whined, tugging on his jeans.

“A’ight you little shit,” Mickey laughed, scooping up his son.

Yev clapped a hand over Mickey’s mouth, this very serious expression crossing his features. “You liddle shit, daddy.”

“Ay, you don’t talk like that,” Mickey frowned at his son, using his best dad-voice. 

Iggy had been teaching Yev that. Yev, you stink!  _You stink, Ian!_ Pick up your toys.  _You pick up your toys, mama!_ (that one was Mickey’s favorite one so far) Look at your funny little face!  _You funny face, Geegee!_  (Yev also either couldn't or wouldn't say Iggy, no one knew).

Yev was looking at him with those big blue eyes and had successfully mastered the Mickey Milkovich eyebrow arch so well, and the grin Mickey was fighting off finally broke through. This kid was going to be a major pain in his ass down the road, he could picture it already. 

Mickey thought he probably had it coming though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Thank you for all the feedback so far!  
> 2\. It's been like.. years... since I've written fanfics. I forgot how fun it was.  
> 3\. Fucking finally, right? Jesus Mickey, just sign the fucking papers! Fuck.


	5. A Lesson In Education

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He kept his hands tucked into his pockets, suddenly feeling very self-conscious about his tattoos and the fact that he was wearing one of his stupid fucking t-shirts with the sleeves ripped off. This whole trip to Lincoln Park was a spur of the moment, do it while you still have the guts to trip. He should have waited until Ian could go with him. At least Ian was a good buffer for nice places like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Content Warning (just in case it's potentially triggering to someone)  
> Being as vague as I can with a warning like this: Mickey confronts the man who assaulted one of Angela's girls.

The outside of the building was old and brick, but in that nice way, not in that shitty South Side way. It had nice nice shrubs, and flowers, and a shiny floor; stainless steel elevator with mirrored ceilings. Mickey was afraid to touch anything in case he had dirt on his hands.

He probably should have dressed in a nicer shirt, but it was too late for that now. Besides, Angela knew him, knew how he dressed, saw where he lived. She wouldn't expect him to start donning three piece suits, and genuine leather shoes, right? He wished Ian were with him, so he could calm him down, say something _mildly_ profound to just bring him back to center. He didn't like feeling like this.

“You sweat like pig.”

Mickey closed his eyes and took a deep breath, drawing any ounce of patience that was left in his body. “It’s because of all that fucking hot air coming out of your mouth. Why are you here again, shouldn’t you be watching our fucking kid?”

A snort of laughter came from his other side. Mickey looked over at Carl, who immediately went back to being silent, hands shoved in his pockets. For some reason, Mickey agreed when the kid had asked him if he could tag along today. 

“Orange boy asked me to come. Nika is with Yevgeny,” Svetlana answered. “Also, I am curious to see the office.”

“Just keep your mouth fucking shut. _Please_.” Mickey folded his arms under his chest while he waited for the elevator to reach the tenth floor.

Svetlana mumbled something in her native tongue. 

Mickey clenched his jaw and looked over at her, arching his brow, “I can’t deal with that shit right now.”

“You think too much. We go in, you sign contract, we go. Simple. Should have been done on day one.”

Mickey clenched his jaw tight and took another deep breath; it was no secret that people in general annoyed the shit out of Mickey, but there weren't many people who could irritate him  _quite_ like Svetlana could (it was probably due to the fact that the woman did it on fucking purpose). 

In an ideal world, yeah he would have jumped on the offer as soon as it was made. But shit like life-changing business partnership deals falling into his lap was _beyond_ out of the fucking blue; he would have been a complete moron not to flesh everything out first.

A lot of people would call him an idiot now for going through with the deal, knowing what he did. Knowing what Angela did. But who was he to pass judgement on her? So she ordered a hit on a douchebag pimp who let his girls get beat up and assaulted, and hired underaged girls. _So. Fucking. What._ Good riddance. He had _zero_ room to judge that. Angela made a good call, as far as he was concerned.

The elevator pinged; the doors opened up to some kind of large entrance hall. There was a door on his left and a door on his right. He rubbed at his lips, took a deep breath and went for the door on the left, with the chrome letters reading _Suited_. Svetlana’s heels clicked on the shiny white floor behind him. Carl's sneakers squeaked. _Perfect_.

Behind the door was what looked like a waiting room of some kind, all clean white surfaces with potted plants and silver accents. There was a simple desk with a blonde girl who was in the middle of ending a call. Mickey had that feeling again of not wanting to touch anything. Both Svetlana and Carl walked slowly around the room; the kid had these wide eyes and smile, abandoning his usual laid-back stance; Svetlana sent him an impressed little smirk.

“Can I help you?” The girl at the desk asked him. She eyed him and Carl a little nervously, pulling her bottom lip in between her teeth.

“Yeah, uh… is Angela here?” Mickey asked her. 

He kept his hands tucked into his pockets, suddenly feeling very self-conscious about his tattoos and the fact that he was wearing one of his stupid fucking t-shirts with the sleeves ripped off while this girl was in something that he could only describe as _clean_. This whole trip to Lincoln Park was a spur of the moment, _do it while you still have the guts to_ trip. He should have waited until Ian could go with him. At least Ian was a good buffer for nice places like this.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. You tell Angela that Mickey Milkovich is here, yes?” Svetlana cut in. 

The girl’s eyes widened as she looked back at Mickey, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize you were Mr. Milkovich! Please, follow me, I’ll take you to Angela’s office.”

“Mr. Milkovich,” Svetlana grinned at Mickey as they followed the blonde down a short hallway. 

If Mickey didn’t know any better, he would have thought he saw a little pride that look Svetlana sent him. He rolled his eyes and walked through the door to Angela's office. 

“Mr. Milkovich is here,” the girl told Angela.

The dark haired woman rose from her desk, a blinding, relieved smile spreading over her face, “I was worried you wouldn't come. Svetlana, how are you? You look great.”

The women hugged and exchanged their greetings. Mickey sighed, looking around the office —it looked a lot like the rest of the place, all white and silver and glass with a big potted tree thing in the corner. 

“And, I don’t believe we’ve met,” Angela extended a hand to the kid, “Angela.”

“Uh, Carl,” he introduced himself, his whole face going red.

“Shit, sorry,” Mickey sighed, gesturing to Carl, “Ian’s little brother. He’s uh… just hanging around. He’s cool.”

“Like intern,” Svetlana supplied. “Carl is good boy, keeps his mouth shut, listens to Mickey. Won’t be a problem.”

Angela nodded with a grin, “Do you want anything to drink? Ava, can you get them something to drink, please? Actually, you know what… champagne for us girls, and beers for Mr. Milkovich and Carl —wait, how old are you?”

Carl shrugs and smirks, “Old enough.”

“He’s fine,” Mickey nods when Angela looked to him for confirmation.

“What kind of beer—”

“Domestic,” Angela smiled at Ava.

Ava left quietly, Carl watching her as she did so. It was probably a bad idea to bring the kid, he was so easily distracted by a piece of ass.

“You know him well,” Svetlana said, taking a seat in one of the two chairs in front of Angela’s desk.

“Thanks to you,” Angela replied. 

What the fuck happened to Svetlana keeping her mouth shut? Mickey sat heavily in the other chair and chewed on his lip, Carl stood next to him, folding his hands in front of him like he was a fucking OG or something; Angela settled back down behind her desk. 

“So how’re we doing this?” Mickey asked.

Ava came back into the room, handing each Angela and Svetlana champagne flutes, and Mickey and Carl their bottles. “Can I get you anything else, Mr. Milkovich?”

Angela looked to Mickey, eyebrows raised.

“Uh… no, I’m good. And Mickey is fine,” he replied. There was no way in _hell_ he was ever going to get used to being called Mr. Milkovich. 

Ava nodded, then left. 

Svetlana looked over at Mickey, “Let her call you Mr. Milkovich. It’s respectful.”

“It’s fucking weird,” Mickey sighed against the mouth of his beer bottle.

Angela didn’t waste much time showing Mickey around the entire office, Carl and Svetlana closely on their heels. There really wasn't much to it, since not a lot happened there besides taking appointments and other business logistical shit that Mickey knew he’d get a hang of pretty quickly. But even though there wasn’t much, it was all fucking _nice_. Then Angela showed Mickey to his very own office.

“Damn Mickey,” Carl grinned.

Again, a white space with glass and a couple potted plants. But Angela encouraged him to make any changes he wanted to, to make himself comfortable. Svetlana kept to herself, sipping at her champagne, watching him with amused eyes as he sat in the chair behind the desk, feeling the texture of the white leather. All this white was going to have to go, before he started mucking up the place.

It felt… kind of good, if he were being honest. There was this weird thrill that ran through him as he settled behind the desk and leaned back in the chair. It was going to be his. This office, was going to be all his. No one else’s. 

He’d always had to share most of his things. It came with the territory of having siblings and being from a shitty neighborhood. But _this_ , this was entirely his, not to be shared with anyone else. His chair. His computer. His office phone. His stupid fucking plant that was going to either get thrown the fuck out or moved to the front waiting room. His.

“How do girls know that client’s are good men?” Svetlana asked Angela, “My girls will be safe, yes? That is why Mickey is here?”

“My girls,” Mickey corrected, earning an eye roll and Russian muttering from Svetlana.

“Any client that we’ve already approved has had an extensive background check —those files are on your computer already, Mickey. Any new prospective clients get checked out first before meeting with one of the girls.”

“Only background checks?” Carl asked, brows raised. “You know that shit happens all the time and doesn't get reported, right?”

“Crazy runs in the blood of rich white men,” Mickey mumbled.

Angela sighed, “Yes, unfortunately, there’s that. Most clients are very particular about discretion, obviously, and most of the time any pre-date conversations are over the phone. Some do come into the office though, but it doesn't happen often. You know this business, Mickey. It’s a gamble. We can’t guarantee that a client won’t…”

“Yeah,” Mickey sighed. He looked over at Svetlana, “Well?”

Her eyes widened in mock surprise, “Mr. Milkovich want’s my opinion? He tells me to keep my mouth shut, now he wants opinions. Typical man, can never make up his mind.”

Mickey pulled a face in her direction, “You know what—”

“This good fit. I like office. I like neighborhood, good for baby. Good schools, yes?”

Angela smiled, ducking her chin down a little, “Yes, very good schools.”

“Orange boy will like this,” Svetlana told Mickey. Her face turned serious, “We raise baby in good neighborhood. But we make sure he does not turn out like spoiled rich pussy boy. Or like you. Sign paper so I can go back to baby.”

“Like me?” Mickey glared, “The fuck’s that—”

Svetlana waved a dismissive hand, “Criminal, jail, high school dropout, you know. Pimp. I do not care if Yevgeny is rainbow boy. Don’t be stupid, you tiny Ukrainian shit.”

That made Carl snort a laugh, “Shit if being like Mickey gets you _here_ , sign me up.”

Svetlana sent the kid a warning look, “And _you_ , no more bullshit. Your sister has enough to worry about. You are a man now, act like one. Mickey and Orange Boy will show you how. You listen to them, yes? You give your sister more shit, I bash head in with hammer like tiny grape. Understood?”

Mickey and Angela exchanged smirks. Finally someone besides him was being lectured by the Russian. Fiona mothered the kid just fine, but Carl was the kind of guy that needed a little extra kick in the ass. 

Svetlana liked doing that shit, mothering, fussing, making sure children were behaved and safe. The way she looked at Carl was the way she looked at Yev when he did something he wasn't supposed to.

Carl frowned, his cheeks turning read again, he mumbled something.

“What was that?” Svetlana tilted her head. “You will be around baby, you will show good example. No more bullshit.”

“Yeah, whatever… understood,” Carl repeated. 

When Mickey did sign the papers, he felt nauseous, but not in a bad way. All the shit with Angela’s ex-business-partner/pimp was in the past now. Him signing those papers after he gave the woman a pointed look got that message across. 

She was trusting him. He was trusting her. New slate.

Svetlana and Angela talked about getting all the girls together to meet. Mickey wasn’t really a part of that conversation, not really having any interest in salons or spas or fucking _brunch_. What the fuck did you eat at brunch anyway? Was he going to have to go to this brunch? Ian would probably make him go, to meet Angela’s girls and _act like an actual person who gives a shit_ , as Mandy would say.

(He needed to call Mandy. She needed to come home.)

While Mickey and Carl walked with Svetlana to the elevator, she gasped as if remembering something, “Orange boy wanted me to remind you to ask about the man who attacked the girl.”

“Wait, what?” Carl questioned.

“Fuck, that’s right,” Mickey sighed. He handed her the car keys, “We’ll be down in a few minutes. Kid, come with me.”

The elevator doors closed; Mickey gestured to Carl to follow him back to the office. 

“What’s going on?”

“This guy attacked one of Angela’s girls. We’re gonna go deal with that. Today,” Mickey explained.

“You mean like… he raped her?”

“Yeah man,” he nodded.

Mickey gave Ava a quick wave while he padded past the front desk and towards Angela’s office. He stood at the door for a minute, not knowing if he should knock or what, until he just thought _fuck it,_ gave a curtsey knock, and walked right in.

“Ay, what’s that fuckers name that assaulted one of your girls?” he asked Angela.

Angela’s brows arched at him; she hesitated, “James Schulz, why?”

Mickey shrugged, “You got an address for him?”

“In the client files, it’s his work address though…”

“A’ight,” Mickey nodded, turning to leave Angela’s office.

“Uh, Mickey,” Angela called after him, “You know you can’t like… hurt him, right?”

That made Mickey grin, “I know, I know… light fucking touch and all that. I ain’t gonna fuck him up real bad, gonna have a little chat, that’s all.”

“Okay,” Angela nodded. “He is blacklisted though, so we don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

“Yeah but… still,” Mickey brushed the edge of his brow with his thumb. “Part of the package deal, right?”

Angela’s face softened a bit, “Her name is Serena, she’s got a five year old little girl and she’s trying to get through college too. Mr. Schulz sent over three thousand dollars and a diamond tennis bracelet after I called him about it,” she said, pulling out an envelope and a black box from a desk drawer; she held them out to Mickey. “Serena doesn't want any of it. She’s terrified. He really got to her.”

“Fuck,” Carl breathed.

“Well, tell her that I’m gonna take care of it —I’ll take this back to him.” Mickey looked inside the black box. He could feed the entire Milkovich family for six months from selling this thing. And here it was, being used as a gag, an afterthought. 

He felt that heat in his chest as he shoved the box and envelope into his pocket.

 

* * *

 

“Excuse me! I said you can’t go in there! Mr. Schulz is on a conference call — _excuse me!_ ”

Mickey waved a dismissive hand at the secretary’s screeching. He flung open the heavy wooden door leading to James Schulz’s office, Carl right behind him, wielding a video camera.

He was probably in his fifties, a bit of a gut, but otherwise in decent shape; receding hairline, too much cologne, a personal shrine to himself plastered all around his corner office. Mickey was not surprised at all. 

“Who the hell—” Schulz sputtered, quickly hanging up his office phone.

“What’s going on Jimbo,” Mickey smirked. He plucked a picture frame off of the desk, looking at the family portrait. Wife, two daughters, family dog, all in front of a obnoxiously big house. Carl had done some Facebook and Google recon on the way over. Mr. and Mrs. Schulz were old school love, high school sweethearts. They’ve been together forever, since before Schulz started raking in the big bucks. Most likely never even signed a prenup. 

Schulz snatched the picture frame out of Mickey’s hands, the glass of his expensive watch reflecting the light. “You need to leave —and why is he filming this? Why are you filming this —turn that off!”

“I’m sorry Mr. Schulz, they just walked in! Should I call security?”

It took everything in Mickey not to reach over and strangle the fucker. Instead he took a seat in a chair in front of Schulz’s desk and propped his feet up. “Shit, this chair is _nice_.”

“Yes, call security, dammit!” 

“Might not want to do that,” Mickey drawled, holding up his pointer finger. “Could get _real_ fucking messy for you, Jimbo.” He kept his eyes on Schulz while Carl walked around and surveyed the office with the camera. 

Schulz narrowed his eyes, looking between Mickey and Carl, “How is that?”

“Glad you asked,” Mickey smirked, pulling the black box from his pocket, he threw it to Schulz. The older man opened it, instantly freezing where he sat. He was fixed on the piece of jewelry, his face turning beet red. Schulz shook his head, his mouth opening and snapping shut a few times.

“Can we get some fucking privacy?” Mickey swiveled his head around to look back at the secretary. 

“Mr. Schulz?”

“Uh… it’s… it’s fine, Barbara,” Schulz stammered. “No need for security.”

“We wont be long,” Mickey told Barbara.

After the office door was shut, Mickey waited, watching sweat slowly overtake Schulz. The circumstances were fucked up, but Mickey was going to enjoy the shit out of this. It was one thing to take care of business in South Side, where the Johns were piss poor just like him and came from the bottom of the barrel. But this guy, this silver-spoon motherfucker was something that Mickey was very quickly realizing a whole new level of satisfying.

“Give my associate your wallet,” Mickey directed, his voice dropping to a dead serious kind of low. Light touch, he reminded himself.

Schulz tried, and failed, to suppress a snarl; he handed Carl his wallet anyway. “Didn’t realize that Angela was employing _thugs_ to do her dirty work.”

“Oh don’t worry, Angela didn’t hire us,” Mickey explained, “I’m the new partner… since your good buddy got a little too greedy with the Horse. Shit’s a _real_ killer. Nasty fucking habit.”

Schulz stayed silent, looking somewhere between seething and terrified.

Carl sat in the other chair, handing Mickey the wallet, “There’s like five hundred dollars in there.”

“Different world, man,” Mickey sucked on his teeth; he took Schulz’s drivers license and held it up to the camera for a few good seconds before pocketing it. 

He gave Carl the cash that was in the wallet because the last person who needed it was James fucking Schulz, “Give this to your sister for bills of whatever.”

“Do you know who I am?” Schulz gritted through his teeth. He snatched his wallet off of his desk after Mickey tossed it back towards him.

“I know where you _live_ , I know where your wife meets up with her country club friends for lunch, where your kids go to school, I know where you get your fucking hair cut,” Mickey stated, ticking off with his fingers. “I know a lot about you, Jimbo.”

“You son of a bitch—”

“Let me break it down for you,” Mickey cut him off. “Me working with Angela means that her girls are my girls now, and my girls are hers. Thing is… nobody hurts my girls. And if they do, bad fucking things happen to them. _You_ were stupid enough to hurt one of _my_ girls. You hurt her bad. So…” he lifted his shoulders, “But fortunately for you, I can’t beat the shit out of you. That means we’re gonna have to do this another way. Sound good? Good.”

“Wait—”

“Kid, what’s hung up all over the walls?” Mickey kept his eyes on Schulz as he spoke. Carl kept the camera on him as well —the older man shifted uncomfortably under his stare, his eyes darting between him and the camera.

“Looks like diplomas and awards and shit.”

“You think it’s safe to say that Jimbo here has had a better education than you?”

“Yeah,” Carl replied.

Mickey nodded, taking his feet down from the edge of the desk. “You consider yourself an educated man?”

Schulz pressed his lips together, his hands shook on his desk. “I went to Dartmouth.”

“I didn’t ask you what fucking college you went to,” Mickey growled. “I asked you if you consider yourself an educated man. Or do you not understand the fucking question?”

Schulz took a deep breath, his lip curling. “ _Yes_. I consider myself an educated man.”

Faster than he thought he could move, Mickey stood, reached across, grabbed Schulz’s tie and pulled the older man down, knocking his head against the hard surface of the desk. A couple files flew to the floor in the short scuffle; Schulz yelped in surprise; Carl cursed, scrambling to get a better angle with the camera. 

This was a little less light of a touch than Mickey had planned, but whatever.

“Then why the _fuck_ do you not know what the fucking word _no_ means?”

“You said… you said you weren’t going to hurt me!” Schulz stuttered, voice no longer full of disgust, but fear.

Mickey and Carl exchanged a look, “What kind of pussy ass… motherfucker, I said I couldn't beat the shit out of you! Pay attention.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t hurt that girl!”

“Oh I’m sorry, is this just a big misunderstanding?” Mickey laughed. “Ay kid, clear this up for me… when you’re with someone and they say no, what do you do?”

“You stop,” Carl stated. He was now standing next to Mickey, filming the awkward way Schulz was bent over his desk, computer keyboard smashed halfway under his face.

“Very good,” Mickey nodded. “But like… what if you’re two seconds from getting it in and you’re gonna fucking die if you don’t, then they say stop? But shit, you don’t wanna stop. Then what?”

“You stop.”

"What if you paid for them?"

"You stop."

Mickey leaned in close to Schulz’s ear for a moment, “You. Fucking. Stop. Is this still a big misunderstanding? Do you understand what you did, now that we’ve spelled it out for you?”

The older man struggled in Mickey’s hold; he grunted and cursed, trying to stand back up. “I didn’t rape her, I _paid_ for that bitch—”

“ _Wrong answer_ ,” Mickey gave Schulz’s face a firm slap, stilling the man’s movements. “Kid, one more question. Is it okay to hit girls —even if you think you _own_ them because you’re paying to fuck them? Does that make it okay?”

“No, it doesn't make it okay,” Carl replied. The kid was keeping up, impressing the hell out of Mickey. Maybe having him tag along hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.

“That’s fucking right,” Mickey nodded. He released Schulz, shoving him back into his desk chair. The older man rubbed at his mouth and looked at his fingers as if he were expecting to see blood. “That’s a seventeen year old kid right there—”

“Sixteen.”

“—I’m sorry, _sixteen_ year old kid. South Side born and raised, shitty education, piss fucking poor. And yet… _he_ understands what the fuck _no_ means,” Mickey said. “Kid, given his _Dartmouth_ education, is this man smarter than you?”

Carl didn't answer this time. 

Mickey looked over at the kid and shook his head, “The answer is _no_. He’s not smarter than you. Smart men don’t fucking beat and rape. Okay? You’re smarter than this prick. He thinks he’s better than you. He’s not. He’s fucking scum, okay?”

“Okay,” Carl nodded, his cheeks going a little pink, his voice soft.

Schulz was back to shaking and sweating, giving Mickey a murderous glare, “You are way beyond your depth, you inbred white trash piece of _shit_.”

Mickey held up the older man’s drivers license, “I’m gonna hold onto this. I’m gonna keep my eye on you. The next time you _breathe_ wrong, I’m gonna have a nice little chat with your wife about all the fucking money you’ve spent on whores -sorry, escorts. _And_ what you like to do to them.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Schulz spat, his face growing redder by the second.

Mickey smirked and shrugged, “Like I said, I work with Angela now. You know you’re real lucky, right? See, what I’d _like_ to do is shove your stupid ass in a barrel of rocks and throw you in a fucking river. But I gotta behave myself here, play nice and all that. So just consider this a warning before your third strike.”

“Third strike?” Schulz scoffed, pulling a face.

Mickey breathed hard through his nose, rubbing at his lips, trying to keep himself from going over the line. He leaned forward over the desk, grabbed Schulz’s tie again —the older man winced— and jerked him forward until they were practically nose to nose, their eyes boring into each others. 

He kept his voice soft this time, wanting the older man to focus on every single one of his words, “I’ll ruin your whole fucking life. Then after I’ve taken everything from you, and your wife leaves you and your daughters hate you… after all that, it’s not gonna be good for you, man. I don’t think they’ll _ever_ find your body.”

Schulz didn't say anything in return this time. Mickey let go of his tie, smoothed down the lapels of his expensive jacket and gave Schulz a pleasant grin, “Nice suit.”

“What did you learn today kid?” Mickey looked over at Carl, brows raised.

Carl gave a cocky little shrug, “Nothing I didn't already know.”

Mickey laughed, clapping a hand on Carl’s back, “A’ight let’s go before the Russian sends in fucking search and rescue. See ya around, Jimbo.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a really fun one to write.
> 
> Also, I 100% waited until this chapter to bring in Svetlana _just_ for her first line of dialogue after Mickey is very nervous about this whole thing. Because she's a little shit and I love her.
> 
>  **For future reference:** you know how peoples ages in Shameless is a big “wtf is happening?” Yeah, it’s happening in this too, I’m sorry, I really tried. The only persons age I can (kind of) pin down is Carl. So, that being said, I had to adjust Yev’s age. In my head I had him at around like 2. But he’s now 3ish. Carl is 16 (if we go by him being 13?? in s5). That’s all I know. And that might not even be cohesive with the actual show. So this is a big whatever, just go with it.


	6. Mickey Is Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The condo was overflowing with people. Between Angela’s girls, his own girls, a few kids running around (including Yev), and a handful of other people, Mickey felt like he was being buried alive.

Turns out, Mickey did have to go to the fucking brunch. 

_“What the fuck even is brunch? Why the fuck do I have to go?”_  
_“It’s probably just gonna be mimosas and little finger-foods. Get dressed.”_  
_“Mimosas?”_  
_“Orange juice and champagne. Get dressed.”_  
_“That sounds fucking disgusting—”  
_ _“Mickey get dressed, we have to leave in ten fucking minutes. Jesus!”_

Angela hosted the _event_ at her condo that overlooked the Lincoln Park Zoo and Lake Michigan. Unlike the _Suited_ office, Angela’s home was full of wood and warm colors and plush furniture. It was fucking nice, in that overwhelming sort of way. Mickey couldn't even begin to imagine living in a place like this.

The condo was overflowing with people. Between Angela’s girls, his own girls, a few kids running around (including Yev), and a handful of other people, Mickey felt like he was being buried alive. He ended up settling in by one of the large windows where he could keep an eye on Yev and his girls while still maintaining a comfortable distance from the hoard of people.

He had to admit though, his girls did clean up well. They were all in nice, _normal_ clothes. Not like… the typical “hooker clothes” that Mickey had been expecting, with the tight short dresses and the platform heels and tops that their tits spilled out of. 

His girls looked like a group of fucking classy ass bitches and he felt a little swell in his chest like _yeah, this is what I’m bringing to the fucking table_. He was worried that they wouldn't be able to blend in, they’d be too South Side or rough looking. (But then again, Mickey was notorious for underestimating his girls —something he was beginning to realize).

Mickey didn't like thinking of the girls as  _product,_ however if you _did_ think of them that way, Angela definitely had a wider range to select from than he did. They were beautiful and diverse —in body, color and  _skills_. Mickey remembered almost zero of their names and knew that it would take a while for him to get them all down. Shit, he still had trouble remembering a couple of his own girls names. (Ian could probably name all of them.)

Angela introduced him to most of her girls and important clients that get invited to her events; they were all polite, calling him Mr. Milkovich like they had the upmost respect for him, glancing at this tattoos, but never pulling faces at them. Angela must have given them the full run-down or something, because any other interaction Mickey’s had with people with money has been the opposite of what he was experiencing now. 

He had said “Mickey is fine” so many times already that it was becoming ridiculous. 

(He hadn't met Serena, she was running late —something about her kid. So Mickey told Angela to send her over when she arrived. He wanted to give her the video of his meeting with James Schulz, maybe it would give her some piece of mind, he didn't know. Ian had thought of it after watching the tape.)

Svetlana had taken Ian away with her to show him off and introduce him to her new friends. Mickey smirked, watching them all fawn over him, and his hair, and his beautiful face, and his shoulders — _you should get into modeling!_ one of the girls had said. 

Ian was in hog-fucking-heaven, the little attention whore.

“Mickey,” Angela called for his attention as she walked towards him. There was a middle-aged man tailing behind her; short gray hair, mile wide smile; he was flanked by two of Angela’s girls. There was something about the guy that reminded Mickey of that geriatric viagroid douchebag that Ian had fucked around with years ago.

“I want to introduce you to Charlie Foss,” she continued, sending Charlie a small smile. “He is a _very_ dear client and friend, and loves to spoil our girls rotten, so we make sure his name is at the top of our list whenever we have a little party.”

“Angela’s told me all about you, Mickey,” Charlie nodded, his voice having this lilt of an accent; Mickey had always been horrible at placing accents, but it sounded English- _ish_. “You’re quite a man of honor, from what I gathered.”

Mickey shrugged, watching Angela quietly excuse herself to talk to the fidgety caterer. “I dunno about all that, I just have rules, man.”

“I respect that,” Charlie grinned, wrapping his arms around the waists of the girls; they smiled and leaned into him, “Women are too precious not to protect, right?”

Ian saved him just in time with a bottle of beer, “Grabbed this for you, Mick.”

“Thanks, man,” Mickey sighed, “Oh, Ian… this is Charlie. He’s a client, likes to take care of the girls. Charlie, this is Ian.”

“Nice to meet you,” Ian stuck out his hand.

Charlie wrapped his hand around Ian’s, a little gleam in his eyes that immediately had Mickey’s full attention. “I like to take care of the blokes too,” he added, with a wink.

Ian gave a polite, slightly nervous laugh as he took back his hand. Mickey’s brows arched upwards. Talk about a geriatric fucking viagriod and a geriatric viagroid shall show his fucking face. 

Mickey didn't like that he had a jealous streak, but he did —there was no attempting to deny that. He had to share everything his entire life until Ian came into the picture. And it didn't matter if the threat was small and insignificant, if Mickey felt like someone was trying put their hands on his boyfriend or take him away, a fire caught in his belly.

“Is he one of yours, Mickey? I have to admit that I’ve never had the pleasure of spoiling a ginger before.”

Mickey huffed a laugh, “You like redheads?”

“How can you not?” Charlie grinned, eyeing Ian, “They’ve got a lot of fire in them.”

“Yeah I know what you mean,” Mickey rubbed at his mouth, reminding himself that this was obviously a very beloved client and breaking his fingers was _probably_ a bad idea. “So you like what you see?”

“Well, he does look awful good, doesn't he? Look at those shoulders, you must be an athlete or a model.”

“I work out,” Ian shrugged. He sent Mickey a look; that tight grin and head-shake look, a warning not to go overboard.

Mickey sucked on his teeth, “He fucks like a champ too, got a real nice cock.”

Ian, who had chosen to take a drink of his water at that moment, snorted into his glass. The girls flanking Charlie giggled, one of them covering her mouth, her eyes flitting away.

“Oh, I didn't realize you…” Charlie grinned, putting a hand on Ian’s shoulder; he gave Mickey a once over and cocked a lopsided smile, “So you’ve uh… you’ve had a sample?”

“You could say that,” Mickey shrugged, unable to keep his eyes off of the older man’s hand _still_ resting on Ian’s shoulder. Maybe he could break just _one_ finger. He reached over and, very carefully, took Charlie’s hand off of Ian. “His ass ain’t for sale though, since he’s my fucking boyfriend.”

Charlie’s face fell, losing all color, “Oh god, I’m... I'm so sorry.”

“Mickey,” Ian narrowed his eyes, silently telling him to _fix it now_. 

Shit. Mickey sighed —Charlie wasn't a bad guy, just horny. He chewed on his lip. “You know what… don’t worry about it, man. I was being an ass. No need to apologize, I baited you.”

Charlie shook his head, “No, I assumed and… god I’m so embarrassed. I’m so sorry. I thought you were and Svetlana were married?”

“Not really though. Well, only on paper… long story, man,” Mickey said, waving a dismissive hand. “Listen, seriously, this is my bad.”

“No, I assumed—”

“It’s okay, really.” Ian said to Charlie, “He’s a little out of his comfort zone so… he’s kinda on edge and _grumpy_ right now. But you know what… I’m _sure_ Mickey would be _happy_ to find someone.”

Mickey nodded, knowing that he was going to hear shit for this later. “Yeah, I can do that. Firecrotch, tall, nice cock —I can do that. Done.” He had _no_ idea where he was going to find someone that could even _try_ to measure up to Ian. Hopefully Angela did.

After that, the conversation didn't last much longer, but it shifted to business pretty smoothly. Charlie was in real estate, and gave Mickey his card for when they were ready to start looking for a place to move. He really was a nice guy and the longer that Mickey and Ian talked to him, the shittier he felt for baiting him. 

But still, the guy was pretty handsy, right? Just fucking reaching over like that, touching _his_ boyfriend, _assuming_ he was some piece of ass for sale. What the fuck.  

* * *

If you wanted to smoke at Angela’s, you had to go out to the balcony. It was pretty big, a few people huddled out there in the chilled air, puffing on their cigarettes. Mickey and Ian kept to the far corner, against the railing, Ian lazily resting his elbow on Mickey’s shoulder like he was a fucking arm rest or something. Mickey gave up trying to shake him off after the forth time.

Yev had come out with Svetlana for a brief moment. The kid wanted to show Mickey and Ian the brand new toy motorcycle that Angela had surprised him with. He was very into motorcycles recently, so everyone made it a point to tell Yev just how fucking cool the thing was. Then Svetlana took Yev back inside after that, even though the kid wanted to hang out with Ian and Mickey. It was just too cold for him to be standing around if he didn't have to be.

“Carl woulda loved this,” Ian said. “Too bad he had school.”

“That would have been a fucking nightmare,” Mickey smirked. “The kid has no control over his eyes when ass is around.”

“True. This thing hasn't been so bad though, huh?” Ian pulled on his cigarette.

Mickey shrugged, “I guess not, if you don’t count the guy who tried to fuck you. Or, I’m sorry… _spoil_ you. Like you need more attention.”

Ian rolled his eyes, “I cannot believe you did that to him.”

“He put his hands on you, thought you were a fucking… gigolo or some shit. What the fuck is with you and old men?”

“Nice,” Ian sighed, stubbing out the cigarette they had been sharing.

Mickey frowned, mostly at himself, “Okay, low blow.”

“Damn Mick, _two_ apologies in one day?” Ian tilted his head upwards, like he was looking for something in the sky.

“The fuck are you doing?”

“Looking for the flying pigs. Gotta be around here somewhere.”

This time it was Mickey who sighed, “I _should_ sell your ass to that geriatric fuck.”

Ian laughed.

Mickey took a minute look look over at Ian, to really look at him. In this place. In front of the view of the zoo and the lake. He just looked like the kind of guy who was meant to end up here. Ian was fucking beautiful and clean lines and he polished up nice. Real nice. And Mickey… shit. How the fuck was this supposed to work? He was pretty sure he had dirt permanently stained under his fingernails, and the stench of South Side lingering around him at all times.

Ian caught him staring, gave him that look like he could read his mind. Sometimes Mickey wondered if he could.

“I love you, you know.”

Mickey nodded, “I know.”

“You deserve this,” Ian said, his voice soft. He caught Mickey’s belt loop with his finger, just hanging his hand there, “After everything, you deserve this. And I’m happy for you, and I’m proud of you… and you’ll be fine here. It doesn't have to change you, if you don’t want it to. It’s just an address, Mick.”

“And money.”

“Yes, and a shit load of money,” Ian huffed a laugh. “You’ve always been able to find a way to take a fucking penny and turn it into a dollar, know what I mean? Just think of what you can do with _this_. This is your element, I know you feel out of place, but Jesus Mickey… you look good as _fuck_ here.”

Mickey shook his head, mostly out of embarrassment, “Keep it in your pant’s, firecrotch.”

Ian grabbed at Mickey’s hip and pulled him against himself, dipping his head down to breathe hotly against his ear, “I’m serious Mick, you’re lucky these people are out here right now.”

Mickey grinned and gave a light push at Ian’s chest, feeling his body react to his breath, “Get the fuck outta here. Fucking nympho.”

Ian gave one of those wicked smiles, sliding his hand into Mickey’s back pocket, “ _Yeah_ I’m a nympho for to that _ass_ —”

“Mr. Milkovich?”

Mickey and Ian broke apart, coughing and smoothing out their clothes. Ian barked a goofy nervous laugh. Face feeling as if his face were on fire, Mickey turned his attention to the woman who said his name, choosing to completely ignore his giant idiot of a boyfriend. 

She was quite small, a halo of curly hair as dark as his own, copper-brown eyes like old pennies. She looked between Ian and Mickey with a soft smile, “Angela said you wanted to see me when I got here?” 

“You Serena?” Mickey asked.

She nodded, “Yes, sir.”

“Mickey is fine. This is my boyfriend, Ian.”

The two of them shook hands, Ian giving her one of those smiles that made everyone else in the general vicinity smile, every fucking time. It worked on Serena too.

“I’m… I’m sorry I’m so late, my daughter is sick. I had to wait for my sitter,” her voice shook a little, as if she were in trouble with him or something. Mandy used to talk to their father like that. Mickey didn't like it.

He shrugged, “That’s okay, I ain’t worried about it. You should leave early, if you want to you know… go home to be with your kid.”

Serena nodded, “Thank you, sir.”

Mickey frowned, not really knowing how to respond, so he didn’t (also the whole _sir_ thing was gonna have to go). He didn't really see where he should have been expecting a thank you from the woman. Her whole demeanor was pretty clammed up though; none of the other girls he met were like that. So Mickey couldn't tell if it was because of what happened with Schulz, or because that was just the way she was.

“He’s been trying to go home since we got here,” Ian (thankfully) added while he lit up another cigarette; instead of pulling on it, he handed it off to Mickey. 

That made Serena grin, “Angela likes to throw a party whenever she can.”

“Where were you to warn me about that when I was signing the fucking papers, huh?” Mickey joked, trying to get the girl to relax.

She laughed that time, her shoulders lifting in a shrug.

Mickey reached into his pocket and pulled out the black thumb drive he’d been keeping there. He held it out to her, “Took a trip to talk to Schulz last week, had a little talk.”

Serena took the drive, her eyes wide and watery, “You what?”

“I took care of it,” Mickey shrugged. There was a pull in his stomach as he realized, by the look on her face, that no one had ever done this for this girl before. He realized that Schulz wasn't the first.

“You don’t have to watch it,” Ian said. “You know, if you don’t feel comfortable.”

Mickey nodded at Ian’s words, exhaling smoke away from Serena. “Fuck… watch it, burn it, throw it away, I don't give a shit. Just wanted you to know that I took care of it.”

“I don’t…” Serena breathed, slipping the drive in her jacket pocket, “I don’t really know what to say. Thank you… if there’s anything that I can do for you—”

“You don’t owe me shit,” Mickey drew his brows together, “This ain’t a favor for a favor. This is what I’m supposed to do, it’s my job.”

And fuck, tears were gathering in her eyes, slipping down her cheeks. Mickey, a little panicked, looked over at Ian. The redhead nodded toward the girl in his way of telling Mickey to do something — _anything_. But this was different than when Angela cried in his kitchen; he didn't wan to put his hands on her, even if it would be in trying to get her to stop crying. He didn’t want to scare her.

“I’m sorry,” Serena carefully wiped under her eyes, “It’s just… I’ve been a little, you know, overwhelmed and this is… I can’t really begin to thank you enough.”

All he could think to do was shrug, “Don’t need to thank me.”

“I do though,” she said.

“Just accept her thank you, Mick, _Jesus_ ,” Ian murmured next to him.

Mickey nodded, “Uh, then you’re welcome.”

Serena gave him another soft smile, turning to go back inside.

“Actually, there is something you can do for me,” Mickey said.

She paused and slowly turned back around, her bottom lip caught in between her teeth, eyebrows raised a little. Mickey frowned at the thought of what this girl —all these girls— probably had to go through with Angela’s old partner.

“Could you and Angela get all the rest of the girls together, like in a room or something, away from… everyone else? I’ll be in a minute, I just want to you know, have a little meeting thing.” 

“I can do that, sir.” Serena nodded.

“Thanks.”

She left, leaving Mickey and Ian on the balcony, completely alone this time, everyone else who had been smoking headed back in, away from the cold. Mickey took another drag from his cigarette, watching Ian watch him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” the redhead shrugged. “Just like watching you do this.”

Mickey smirked, stubbing the cigarette out and tossing it over the railing, “Watching me do what?”

“Take care of your girls,” Ian said. “It’s almost like watching you in dad-mode.”

“It’s just business—”

“You’re so full of shit, Mick. It has _nothing_ to do with business and everything to do with that tiny little mushy center that you are in complete denial about.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and huffed a laugh, choosing not to respond to that. 

Ian was right though, it wasn’t just about business. It was about right and wrong, and deeper shit that Mickey didn't have the time or energy to even think about. It was kind of scary sometimes, how well his boyfriend knew him, how far they’d come —not only in their lives, but in their relationship. Ian was his best friend and knew him better than he knew himself sometimes.

They had a bit of a rocky road to where they were now, there were patched up cracks in their foundation. It hadn’t always been teasing and laughing and being happy. And that wasn’t to say that now it was all sunshine and rainbows. Mickey could still be a major dick sometimes and say stupid shit that he regretted. Ian could too. But it was good now, they were good now.

Ian had bad days sometimes, he got a bit withdrawn and quiet and needs some space. It wasn’t as bad as it used to be though. It used to tear Mickey up, not knowing how to help him, knowing that Ian was stuck inside his head, inside his depression. 

Now Mickey knew what to do. Now Mickey didn't feel helpless, didn’t feel like he was drowning, trying to figure out what to do with the redhead. They were better now, stronger because of all of that shit. Ian took care of himself, had a routine, a set schedule of visits to the clinic and a cocktail of medication that actually fucking worked.

Fuck, Ian was going to be able to go to a good doctor now, not just pop into the clinic. A while ago, he’d been talking here and there about maybe wanting to go to a therapist, for those just-in-case moments, for stuff he felt he needed to work through. They just never had the money. But now… now Mickey could make that happen. 

It was all falling together that he could give his family this life that they deserved, this really fucking good life. And that was all that Mickey ever really tried to do, take care of his family, make sure they had a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. It had been a struggle for his entire life to do that. But now, it was like maybe he could finally exhale. He could finally, _properly_ , take care of his own.

This really is a whole new world and while Mickey still thinks he might be dreaming, it’s scaring the shit out of him.

“A’ight, lemme go talk to the girls, then I wanna get the fuck out of here,” Mickey said. “You going into work later today?”

“Yeah, I got the afternoon shift,” Ian replied.

“You wanna fuck when we get home?” 

Ian laughed, his eyes wide and disbelieving, “Are you seriously trying to _schedule_ sex right now? Seriously?”

Mickey shot him a grin and smoothed his button-down shirt, “I’m a business man now, I gotta start acting like it. You know… once a week quiet missionary sex while the kids are sleeping, in the complete dark because we can’t fucking stand to look at each other anymore.”

Ian's smile softened, “Kids?”

But Mickey’s face fell. He hadn’t meant to say that. Hadn’t been thinking. He rolled his eyes, trying to play it off, “You know what I meant, firecrotch.”

“Hey,” Ian caught Mickey’s arm before he had the chance to slip away. Mickey looked up at Ian, Ian looking at him, his eyes searching his face. Again, doing that damn mind-reading thing that made Mickey’s life fucking difficult. Mickey ran his tongue over the corner of his lips and sighed. 

Instead of saying anything, Ian pressed his lips against the side of Mickey’s head, squeezing his arm. A silent _I like that_.  

* * *

Somehow all twenty girls packed into Angela’s home office, along with Mickey, Ian and Angela. As soon as Mickey stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, the soft cheater died down.

He’d never been one for public speaking. It wasn’t that it scared him, it was just awkward to talk to a bunch of people at once. The last time he addressed an entire room full of people, it ended in a bloody bar brawl.

“Not gonna take too much of your time,” Mickey began, shoving his hands into his pockets, “Those who haven't met me yet, I’m Mickey… and you can call me Mickey, don’t need that Mr. Milkovich shit.”

That got a couple polite chuckles from the girls. Mickey smirked.

“My girls already know this, but uh… if you ever have a problem with a John—”

“Client,” Angela correctly softly.

Mickey nodded, “Sorry, _client_. If anyone ever has a problem with a client… it ain’t okay and I don’t uh… I don’t allow that shit to go on. So if it happens, if you already have a client or two that do that shit, I need names. I don’t care how fucking good the money is, okay?”

“You can come to me with names also, if you can’t find Mickey, and I will give them to him,” Angela added.

“What happens to those clients?” a blonde girl asked, her brows raised curiously. He'd met her earlier, though Mickey couldn't remember her name... Sharon? Charlotte? Shevon? Something like that.

Mickey shrugged, exchanging a brief look with Ian, “I go have a talk with them. Then they get blacklisted.”

The girls were silent that time, the room grew a little tense, a little unsure. Then Mickey’s shoulders slumped down and he shook his head when fucking Svetlana made her way over to him, to stand next to him and address the girls.

“The fuck are you doing?” Mickey asked her, keeping his voice low.

“Translating,” she answered softly. “Client hits you, tell Mickey. Client forces you to preform sexual acts, or forces themselves on you, tell Mickey. Client threatens you, tell Mickey. Client refuses payment or doesn't pay enough, tell Mickey. He takes care of girls, does what needs to be done. Simple.”

“So then what do we owe him?” another voice popped up.

Mickey pulled a face, what was with this shit? “Nothing.”

“I’ve told them several times, but I think it might sound too good to be true to them,” Angela explained to Mickey and Ian.

“There is no catch,” Svetlana tells the girls. “He is not always patient or understanding with girls, but he will not blackmail, he will not threaten, he will not hit. He has rules for clients. This is the way he works. Mickey will keep you all safe. This is his job.”

Soft murmurs spread across the room. Mickey clenched his fists in his pockets and sighed, looking over at Ian and Angela. Angela’s eyes were a bit watery, she shook her head and gave a helpless shrug, telling Mickey that her girls were used to strings and conditions.

But then little Serena came to the front of the room with that thumb drive, “Girls,” she called, voice soft but able to cease the murmurs. She held up the drive, “Mr. Mil— _Mickey_ went to talk to James Schulz last week. I think it would be good for us all to watch this.”

“You okay with that?” Mickey asked her.

Serena nodded, “I need it. So do they, so they can see.”

Mickey didn't want to stand around and watch the tape again, especially in a room full of people. It was awkward as hell and thankfully Ian sensed his hesitation to stay. Under the guise of Ian having to go into work early, they make it out of there alive. Angela and the girls waved them off. 

They said goodbye to Charlie and a few other clients who were grouped together in the living room, talking about whatever the fuck rich businessmen talk about… politics? Finances? The size of their Yachts? Mickey doesn't fucking know. He just wants to get home and spend time with Ian before he has to go to work.

Mickey and Ian make out on the elevator ride down to the lobby. Ian gets a hard-on and curses at Mickey when he starts laughing at it. Luckily no one is in the lobby, so Ian adjusting himself, and trying to calm himself down isn’t seen by anyone else but Mickey, who couldn't stop laughing if he tried. Not that he tried, though.

They go home and, just as scheduled, they fuck. Twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a lot of Mickey & Ian time in this :)  
> Some of this could have gone a little smoother, and I'm not 100% happy with the ending, but ya know, these things happen.


	7. Montgomery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carl watches Mickey the way that he’d watch a pack of lions take down a buffalo on the Discovery channel. It used to bother Mickey. It used to get under his skin when the kid would just stare at him, watching his every move.

Mickey wakes up to warm breath on the back of his neck and fingers making lazy circles on his stomach. He keeps his eyes closed, savoring the moment, savoring the feeling of breath turning into warm lips, gentle fingers turning into a flat palm pressing, pulling him backward until heat covers his back. Mickey lets himself press back into Ian, the muscles in his body unwilling to do anything but.

They don’t say anything, don’t really need to. Ian nuzzles his face down into Mickey’s shoulder and inhales, wrapping his arm around him, squeezing him. Mickey grins, the hair on the back of his neck prickling and shuddering from Ian’s breath. 

He’s so comfortable that he’s tempted to fall back asleep, but his body has other plans. Ian’s body has other plans too, snugly poking at him from behind, the redhead lazily rocks his body against him, sighs out a little noise.

Ian’s hand travels down, fingers brushing against Mickey’s steadily hardening length, keeping his face buried against his shoulder. Mickey exhales long and soft, feeling his body craving more; he reaches out to his nightstand, fumbling until his fingers wrap around a tube. 

Ian presses his tongue and lips to the side of his neck. “You feel so good,” he whispers.

Mickey squeezes some of the contents of the tube into his hand and reaches back, between him and Ian, to wrap his fingers around him, moving his hand, letting it slide easily. Ian breathes hard, teeth scraping against Mickey’s shoulder. Then he’s moving them, slow and careful, until Mickey is laying flat on his stomach, his left leg bent out to the side, giving Ian room to settle on top of him and open him up, drawing out a few well earned groans from Mickey.

“You good?” Ian breathes, his voice rough.

“Good enough,” Mickey says, loving the feeling of Ian’s weight.

They’ve worked with much less preparation in the past, those moments of desperation, just trying to get it in as quickly as possible, using only spit and a prayer no one would catch them. So when Ian starts the torturously slow process of pressing into Mickey, he really is okay with it, would even say that he likes that little dull sting.

It’s slow and kind of lazy, Ian fully settling himself on top of Mickey, fully inside of Mickey, his arms doing absolutely nothing to aid him in holding himself up. Mickey shudders and breathes, curling his fingers into fists as Ian moves his hips in short, slow thrusts. Ian traces his fingertips over Mickey’s tattoos before holding his hands down against the mattress.

It’s fucking good like this, lazy morning sex. In a million years, Mickey never thought he’d enjoy it, the whole going slow thing, taking their time in a lazy fuck. Mickey never thought he’d be that guy, but he is. There’s something about having Ian’s whole weight on top of him, pressing him into the mattress and surrounded by sheets and pillows; he just feels safe and comfortable and good —like being trapped, but in the bast way possible. It just feels fucking perfect.

“Don’t move,” Ian whispers, reaching a hand down to pull Mickey’s leg out to the side more; he then holds up his weight on his hands and knees, giving himself a little more room to move a little more, move a little faster —but barely. “Stay like this.”

“Fuck,” Mickey gasps, fisting at the sheets. He pushed back against Ian until the redhead uses a hand to hold him still, pressing into the small of his back.

Ian tells him that he loves him. Mickey says it back, because he does. He fucking loves this man more than he ever thought he could. It scares him sometimes, how much he loves him, what he’d do for this man. He’d do anything. Anything.

It’s drawn out, it’s slow and steady and thank god they have time to waste, because by the time they’re coming, Mickey can’t be sure exactly how long they’d been at it, but Ian falls back on to of him, his hot breath covering the side of his neck, his hips pulsing just barely. 

There’s a tiny amount of disappointment and loss that Mickey feels when Ian climbs off of him. If it were possible, he’d stay there all day, under Ian like that, full of Ian like that. That feeling doesn't last long, because Ian leans back over, cleans him up and whispers hotly against his ear, letting Mickey know that he had _serious_ plans for later that night, that revolved around him taking his sweet fucking time with Mickey’s ass. Ian had a slight obsession with his ass. Mickey was more than okay with it.

* * *

Friday was take-your-Carl-to-work-day for Mickey. Iggy tagged along for the extra muscle since the plan was to make a couple field trips to talk to former clients about their indiscretions. Judge and Jury day, and all that.

The kid was waiting for them out front of the Gallagher house, pulling on a cigarette. As soon as Mickey stopped in front of the house, he pushed off the chain link fence and climbed into the backseat of the car, hitting his fist against Iggy’s and nodding to Mickey before they start driving to Lincoln Park. 

Carl watches Mickey the way that he’d watch a pack of lions take down a buffalo on the Discovery channel. It used to bother Mickey. It used to get under his skin when the kid would just stare at him, watching his every move. 

Mickey half expected him to take out a notepad and start jotting down a play-by-play of everything Mickey Milkovich. But it’s whatever now, if hanging around him keeps the kid out of serious trouble, then that’s fine. He was Ian’s little brother and the Gallagher’s were a package fucking deal.

“Going into the office today?” Carl finally asked after Iggy stopping going on and on about his next run with Colin —guns, this time.

“For a minute,” Mickey answered.

“Cool.”

“Ay, you still working for G-Dogg?” Iggy turned around to look back at Carl.

“You looking for something?”

Mickey gives Carl a hard look through the rear-view mirror, “Thought we had a fucking agreement, man?”

“I’m not dealing anymore,” Carl shakes his head, “Still got my contacts though. I can hook you up with some fucking choice crystal, blow, horse, Molly… whatever you want.”

“Nah, I can get all that shit easy. Can you get your hands on some good shrooms? My guy is dry as fuck right now.” Iggy said.

“Hell yeah.”

“Kid. That’s dealing. You’re _still_ dealing,” Mickey sighed, shaking his head.

“I’m not dealing though,” Carl defended. “I’m just, you know… making connections.”

“Do you touch the money and the product?” Iggy smirked at the kid.

Carl shrugged, “Well, just to pass it… oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_.” Mickey rolled his eyes, “We had an agreement. I told your sister I was gonna make sure you didn't get in that shit anymore. You already went to juvie once. You keep dealing, you can forget about this shit. Fucking serious, man. One or the other.”

“I can talk to G-Dogg,” Iggy offered, “You in deep with him?”

Carl shrugged, “Nah. He’s cool with me, I can handle it.”

Mickey looked at Carl through the rear-view again, “If you can’t… you know…”

Carl nodded, “I know, man.”

Iggy turned the radio up, effectively ending the conversation.

* * *

Angela was out of the office, leaving Mickey, his brother and his boyfriends brother to their own devices —and Ava, the front desk girl, but she mostly stayed up front, doing whatever it was she did. But she did bring them a tray of coffee and pastries (and a flask of whiskey on the side for the coffee, just in case), which tickled the fuck out of Iggy. 

“So how many rich douchebags are we beating the shit outta today?” Iggy asked, mouth full of his third chocolate croissant.

The three of them had set up in Mickey’s office; Iggy propped his feet up on Mickey’s desk while Carl was busy typing away at Mickey’s computer, doing his little Facebook and Google recon on a guy named Montgomery who knocked around two of Angela’s girls _and_ owed a total of five grand for services.

Mickey shook his head, “Can’t do that, man. I told you, light touch.”

Iggy frowned, “The fuck does that mean?”

“It means that we can’t beat the shit out of them. Gotta find another way to make it clear we ain’t fucking around,” Mickey said.

“Can we like… beat the shit outta him a _little bit_?” Iggy offered with a hopeful shrug.

Mickey cocked his head from side to side, mulling it over. As long as they didn't fuck up his face, right? “I mean… maybe a little bit.”

Iggy grinned at that, “Hell yeah. How else you gonna make sure these rich pricks know you’re not to be fucked with, right? Milkovich’s are in town, bitches.”

Mickey grinned at that. Iggy did have a point.

“ _Eww_ , this guy is like fifty-five and his wife is twenty-two,” Carl pulled a face.

Iggy laughed, “Fifty-five and pulling twenty-two year old ass? _Shit_.”

“Keep looking,” Mickey told him, moving to stand next to Carl and look at the computer screen, “Can’t go with the wife, he’s _definitely_ got a prenup.” 

“A’ight,” Carl nodded, rubbing at his bottom lip with his thumb.

Mickey sighed, long and drawn out, trying to draw on his patience. Sometimes, it doesn't happen often, but sometimes _this_ happens. Mickey sees the kid change his stance to stand like him, or rub at his mouth like he does when he’s trying to focus or pull out words. Things that aren’t exactly _natural_ movements to Carl.

The kid has _no_ idea Mickey notices this, and Mickey doesn't say anything. He wont say anything either. Sure, it’s a little annoying sometimes, but the kid’s not hurting anyone when he’s doing it, he’s just trying to find his spot in the world. What was the point in embarrassing him?

He loved his dad, but Frank was too selfish of a person for Carl to look up to. Lip had too big of an ego, but he pulled a lot of ass, so Carl took notice of that. Ian held Carl’s respect. A lot of it. But Ian wasn't the kind of man that Carl wanted to be —wasn’t the kind of man he thought he _could_ be.

Carl was a good kid, with a big heart —he loved hard. There was just something put in backwards when he was made, something kind of dark and a little broken. Not everyone understood it; called him a psycho, called him a bad person because he had to let that part of him out sometimes. He had to put that backwards part of him right side up or else it would sit and fester. Mickey saw that. Mickey recognized that part of Carl because he had that part of him too.

If it took Carl walking with a little dip to his step and cocking his head a certain way when he was trying to act hard, to figure out who he wanted to be, then Mickey would let it slide.

So what, Mickey had a soft spot for the kid —he was loyal and had what it took to take care of his own. The kid was kind of fearless, for the most part. He would do anything for the people he loved, would do whatever it took to right a wrong. And the selfish part of Mickey saw that and knew that he could use that mindset to his advantage  —as long as he kept the kid out of any _serious_ trouble.

He’d never admit this to anyone, especially any of the Gallagher’s, they already looked at Mickey like he was supposed to be Carl’s saving grace, there was no need to fuel that fire. But in a completely weird way, Mickey kind of saw Carl as a “if Mickey Milkovich grew up loved”. And maybe there was a weird part of him that was living through Carl that way, whatever it was, Mickey just _got_ the kid, and the kid got Mickey. So he wasn’t _so_ bad having around.

“Mr. Milkovich?” Ava knocked softly on Mickey’s open office door, a pleasant smile on her face. “There’s a call on line two for you.”

Mickey drew his brows together, elbowing Carl so the kid would get back to work and stop staring at the blonde. “Uh.. who is it?”

“Prospective client,” Ava answered.

His mind went _completely_ blank, “What the fuck am I supposed to say to him?”

Ava pressed her lips together, but kept a patient smile, “Usually Angela just finds out what they’re looking for, and gives them the starting rate, throws in a little small-talk to feel out the client.”

Mickey glanced between his office phone and his brother, who had the biggest shit-eating grin on his face. Fucking asshole.

“If you want, I can take this call and when Angela gets back, she can give you a run-through,” Ava offered with a small shrug.

He really wished Angela was at the fucking office, so she could deal with this shit. Mickey caught his tongue in the corner of his lips and shook his head, “Nah, I’ll take it.”

Ava nodded, “Okay. Line two.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Mickey sighed. “Ay, kid, give the recon a little rest,” Mickey nodded toward the empty chair in front of his desk. Carl got up and moved, letting Mickey take back his chair.

He picked up his office phone and punched the blinking button, hoping he was doing it right. “Yeah?”

There was a pause at the other end of the line, “Is this Mr. Milkovich?” 

“Yeah, this is Mickey,” he responded, raising his brows. 

His eyes darted all over his office, trying to figure out how the fuck this was supposed to go. He’d never done this shit before, he was used to John’s walking up, telling him they were looking for a little rub, a little tug, then collecting the money on their way out. Which was kind of the same principle, right?

“I was referred by a friend to your uh… establishment. I was calling to acquire about the services and rates?” the guy sounded decently young, probably not much older than Mickey.

Mickey shrugged, to himself, “Well, the base rate is a grand. But it depends on what you want, man. What’re you looking for?”

There was hesitation on the other end of the line. “Well…”

Mickey sighed, grabbing a pen and piece of scrap paper from a desk drawer. “You know what, lemme get your name and number, and my associate can call you back. She’s uh… better at this end of the business than I am.”

After Mickey wrote down the guys information and hung up the phone, he leaned back in his chair, shaking his head, “ _Fuck_.”

“Smooth, bro. Real smooth,” Iggy chuckled.

Mickey flicked him off.

* * *

Dealing with Bill Montgomery was more straight-forward than dealing with James Schulz. The guy was old money, was on his third marriage (with prenup) and did a lot of charity work, so his name and face were known all around Chicago.

Mickey, Carl and Iggy waited for him in the parking garage, across from a brand spanking new BMW. They had already scouted out all the security cameras and  found a good spot to direct the guy so they wouldn't have to worry about being recorded.

Finally, after about an hour of listening to Carl and Iggy banter back and forth over the best corners in South Side for dealing, Montgomery strolled out of the elevator. Mickey double checked the picture that Carl found on Facebook to make sure it was their guy.

Now, Mickey wasn't into older men —especially men old enough to be his fucking father. That being said, Bill Montgomery was pretty fucking attractive for a fifty-five year old; light brown hair, he obviously worked out a decent amount. His suit was nice, nicer than Schulz’s suit had been anyway.

“That him?” Carl asked.

Mickey nodded, watching Montgomery unlock his car. “Let’s grab him before he gets in the car.”

It happened quickly. Mickey and Iggy were well versed in this sort of grab and drag dance, pulling Montgomery’s arms back behind him, shoving him down to his knees while Carl kept a lookout. Then Iggy took over, holding the guy while Mickey stood in front of him. Montgomery was strong, and struggled against the hold. The thing about Iggy was, he didn't look like it, but dude was fucking _solid_ ; he didn’t put up with any of the rich guy’s shit.

“What the fuck is this?” Montgomery hissed.

Mickey squatted down in front of the guy so they could look eye-to-eye, “You have a five thousand dollar bill that you need to pay, Mr. Montgomery.”

Montgomery shook his head, “What are you talking about? I’ll have you all arrested!”

Mickey reached out, grabbed a handful of Montgomery’s hair with his U-UP hand, and gave him a nice little slap with his FUCK hand. The sharp stinging sound echoed off the parking garage walls, “Let’s think… who could you owe five thousand dollars to? Maybe those girls that you beat on a couple months ago —the girls you paid to fuck? Ring any bells?”

Montgomery stayed silent that time, his eyes closing as he pulled a pained expression.

“Uh oh,” Iggy grinned, pulling back on Montgomery’s arms, “Help officer, this pimp is demanding money from me because I didn’t pay for the whores I beat on. That’s gonna go over real nice.”

“We’re here to collect,” Mickey shrugged.

“You think I carry around five grand cash on me?” Montgomery breathed hard, looking at Mickey’s tattoos; he pulled a face.

“Kid, check his wallet,” Mickey called back to Carl. “So, not only did you skip out on your bill two months ago, but you hurt two of my girls. Obviously, I can’t let that slide. In case you haven’t caught on yet… things are running a little differently now.”

“Those bitches are lying—”

Mickey pulled on the guy’s hair again and smacked him, “Even if they're lying, you still owe five fucking grand. Plus fifteen percent interest for those two months.”

Montgomery’s eyes went wide, “Interest? Fifteen percent interest?”

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded, “Looks like you owe me sixty-five hundred dollars, motherfucker.”

“Three hundred in the wallet,” Carl announced.

“Sixty-two hundred,” Mickey said, releasing his hold on Montgomery’s hair and stood. The whole owing interest thing was bullshit, but Mickey thought he might as well take advantage of the situation while he could. Throw his brother and Carl some money.

“Fuck you, I’m not paying _interest_ on a couple of fucking _whores_ ,” Montgomery snarled.

“You ever been kicked in the gut by a teenager?” Mickey asked.

“What?”

“Ay, kid,” Mickey nodded to Montgomery, taking a step back. Carl grinned and delivered a swift kick to the man’s belly. The older man doubled over in pain, coughing and wheezing; Iggy had to hold him up.

“Let’s try that again,” Mickey said, “How much do you owe me?”

“I… I have a safe in my office,” Montgomery finally ground out, trying to catch his breath, he wasn’t struggling against Iggy’s hold anymore. “With enough cash… to give you the rest of your money.”

That went easier than Mickey thought it would have, he didn't even have to breakout any blackmail schemes. He could get used to this.

* * *

Angela was at the office when Mickey and Carl got back (Iggy went home, taking his cut with him). She was finishing up a phone call when Mickey walked into her office and put an envelope on her desk.

“Bill Montgomery’s payment,” he smirked.

Angela grinned, pulling out the cash, “Thank you,” she said, counting out the bills. She gave half to Mickey and put the rest in her own wallet.

“I wrote down this new client’s information for you, put it on your desk.”

“Yeah, it was kinda painful to watch him on the phone,” Carl chuckled. Mickey gave the kid the middle finger, forcing himself not to laugh with him. It had been pretty fucking painful.

“That was who I was just on the phone with. Nice guy, a little nervous though. He’s got mommy issues,” Angela rolled her eyes. “Actually, I was wondering if I could get your input on something. About Charlie Foss—”

“Yeah, I’m real sorry about that…”

Angela waved it off, searching around in her huge purse. “Don’t even worry about it. I was out today, asking around for a nice guy for him. Wanted to know which one you thought would be best. Since, you know… this is more your area.”

“Who’s Carlie Foss?”

“This guy that tried to buy your brother’s ass off of me,” Mickey answered Carl.

“Oh shit,” Carl laughed, “To your face? To your actual face?”

Mickey rolled his eyes, “Yes kid, to my actual fucking face.” 

Angela placed four polaroid pictures on her desk, facing Mickey, point to each one as she spoke, “He’s five-ten. He’s six foot. He’s five-nine. And he’s five-eleven.”

They were all head-shots of young redheaded guys. All decently good looking and all smirking up at him like they were ready to drop to their knees. This was fucking weird. Mickey pulled a face, taking a step back, “Wait… what the fuck?”

“Which one do you think Charlie would like?”

Carl laughed behind his hand, “Yeah Mickey, which one is the hottest?”

Mickey felt his face heat up. Determined to turn this shit around, Mickey took a deep breath then looked over at the kid. He was not about to let a sixteen year old embarrass him, “You tell me.”

“I’m not into guys,” Carl sniffed; he folded his arms under his chest. “I got a girlfriend. I mean, we fuck. I fuck girls.”

Mickey snorted a laugh, raising an eyebrow, “Okay, calm down. Did I ask if you were into guys?” he asked. He gestured to Angela, “She’s hot as fuck. But do I wanna get on that? No, I don’t. So you tell me, which firecrotch is hottest.”

Angela covered her reddening face with her hands, “Oh my god.”

“Is this a test?” Carl asked, eyes widening a little.

“Was that a stupid fucking question you just asked me?” Mickey shot back, a satisfied swell in his chest. Back on top of the situation. He gestured to the photos; the five-eleven one was _definitely_ the winner, out of the bunch. “Pick the right one and I’ll uh… I’ll keep this between the three of us. Sound good?”

Carl’s face turned red, “And if I don’t pick the right one?”

Mickey shrugged. He wasn’t going to do anything to embarrass the kid, not really. He was just making a point to him, scare him a little. It was fun; he had to get his kicks somewhere.

Carl nodded and began to look over the polaroids carefully, biting at his thumbnail. Mickey watched him do this, just as carefully, taking a step back so Carl could look over each picture one-by-one. His eyes were kind of wide, kind of overwhelmed. Kind of looked like a mixture of freaked out and confused and… Mickey sighed, running a hand down his face; oh shit. He and Angela exchanged a private, knowing glance.

“Uh, this one, I guess,” Carl shrugged, pointing to the five-eleven.

“Good job, kid,” Mickey thumped a hand on Carl’s back, “You want a beer?”

Carl nodded, “Hell yeah.”

“Thank you,” Angela said to Carl. She looked at Mickey and winked. 

He sighed back and rubbed at the back of his neck, following Carl out of Angela’s office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I know. I hate filler chapters too. I promise it'll pick back up.  
> BUT... Lazy morning sex YEAH. Iggy Milkovich YEAH. Confused Carl? ALRIGHT YEAH.
> 
> Also, the next chap might take a little longer -maybe, maybe not idk- just depends on this impending writers block I feel coming towards me.


	8. After Two Weeks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a father hadn’t been natural for Mickey. The kid was three years old now and it took more than half of his life until Mickey was able to really bond with him, until he could look at him without feeling that pressure in his chest trying to choke him. But Ian, thank god, had been there for the kid when he couldn't be. So, it had taken a while for him to get from _I can’t deal with this kid_ to _I love my son_ , but he found a way. He kinda had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (content warning: a homophobic slur, but more in a 'where you gonna say _this_ ' way.)

The first week had been a trial run for his girls, each only going on one date —it had also been a bit more difficult than Mickey had anticipated. Not the finding his girls work part, word had spread around that _Suited_ had gained ten more girls to their roster and clients were eager to get their paws on them. That wasn't the hard part. The hard part was matching up his girls with clients. This wasn't the Rub-N-Tug, this was a business where the clients expected a certain degree of personalization. 

(He was starting to get a hold of the whole phone-call thing with clients. Established clients were easier to talk to. Luckily, Angela had no problem with being in charge of the prospective-client-phone-calls end.)

But the personalization that clients expected meant that Mickey had to actually go through all his girls one-by-fucking-one and pick out who was the best choice for what client. And that was fucking _exhausting_ , especially since he had to recruit Svetlana for help, since she knew the girls better than he did.

By the end of the week, he knew all his girls names by heart. Which gained him some brownie points because he wasn’t pointing and saying _“You, with the freckles,”_ he was saying _“Ay, Sonya, this guy has a foot thing, you down for that?”_ He’d learned way more about his girls than he ever wanted to know. 

Mickey’d been hesitant about them holding onto the cash until collection day, but Ian had told him to look at it as like a sign of trust. So he did. And his girls pulled through, thank god. 

Everything went smoothly for all of his girls during the first week. Week two came around and each of the girls got in their three dates. 

After week two’s collection day, he was left with _twenty one thousand mother fucking dollars_ cash. 

In. One. Fucking. Week.

_(The answer to the question you’re thinking of right now is yes, Mickey did spread out all that money on the bed and yes, he and Ian did fuck on it. But no, it wasn't as sexy as they thought it would have been. Mickey got a paper cut on his ass, and the bills scattered everywhere in their room, making a huge fucking mess. So they decided that it was a one-time deal.)_

For the first time in his life, Mickey got himself a bank account. He bought his son _new_ clothes and toys and bedding. He went to the grocery store and paid for everything he had taken from the shelves. He took his whole family to Sizzlers, including the Gallaghers —which had been a very loud, very chaotic night for the restaurant. He bought Ian new sneakers for his job. While over at the Gallagher’s house for Saturday dinner, he and Ian snuck three grand into whatever the fuck a “squirrel fund” was because Fiona had refused the money up front. 

And then after a good two days of arguing about it, Ian finally convinced Mickey to go to the mall, and he bought himself a few nice shirts and pants and shoes, for work. 

Mickey called Mandy. He asked her to come back home, told her how good things were going now. Told her that Ian needed his best friend back, all that shit. He said it in his own way, of course… but she got the message. _“Will you get your fucking ass back here, I’m coming into a lot of fucking money and I need you to be Ian’s person again because this motherfucker is annoying the shit out of me.”_

She didn't really want to talk; she sounded kind of tired, but Mickey could tell that she smiled when he said that.

After the second weeks earnings, to say that Mickey had become overwhelmed with reality smacking him in the face had been an understatement. It was a good sort of overwhelmed, where he had a hard time wrapping his mind around how his life was going to change, how his family’s lives were going to change. 

But then the good overwhelmed feeling started to turn into a bad overwhelmed feeling. In just two weeks, Mickey had made more money than he knew what to do with. In two weeks, he went from having nothing to lose, to having a lot to lose. And it would only get worse as time went on. He didn't want to fuck this up. He didn't want to give his family everything they could have ever dreamed of, fuck it up, and then have that life taken away from them.

Angela wouldn't accept any money from Mickey until at least a month passed, saying that she wanted him to use what he could for his family, and to expedite their moving out of South Side. They had an appointment to go look at Lincoln Park apartments _next week_.

Everything was moving so fast. They were getting out of South Side much sooner than they thought, they were going to start a new life, a good life, sooner than they thought. It was a lot to chew on, and Mickey found himself locking himself away when he could, just to process, just to breathe.

“Mick, you okay?” a knock came from the other side of the bathroom door, Ian’s voice hinted with worry.

“Yeah,” Mickey called back. He splashed water on his face and looked in the mirror. He needed a good night’s sleep, he was exhausted, there were bags under his eyes, his back and shoulders killed. He took a long, deep breath in and then let it out, forcing that tension away, rolling his shoulders.

“Yev’s waiting for you,” Ian continued. 

Mickey nodded, “Be right out.”

He’d been conditioned to stuff bad shit down his entire life. Internalize, compartmentalize, and move the fuck on because nobody has the time or patience to deal with whining and tears and pity-parties. Everyone has it fucking tough, he wasn't special. It’s just how it was. Besides, this… how his life was unfolding… was nothing to be sad about. It was the complete opposite of fucking _bad_. 

He just wished that he could stop feeling like he was drowning.

It was getting harder to push it down though. Too much was built up already. Mickey hadn’t had an _incident_ in a long time. Mandy called it a panic attack, but Mickey shut that down as soon as it left her mouth. They weren’t fucking panic attacks because people who couldn't handle pressure or fucking _life_ had panic attacks. He could handle it. They were just… moments where he slipped up. He hadn't slipped up in a long time, but he felt it coming. Wouldn't be tonight or tomorrow, but he felt it churning and pressing against his chest.

Ian was waiting for him outside of the bathroom. Kissed him softly, wrapped his arms around him; Mickey breathed into him, breathed him in, feeling that pressure in his chest dissipate a little bit. Enough to put on a smile for his boyfriend’s sake.

“You good?” Ian asked.

“Yeah, man.” Mickey pulled a face. He laughed, “Can no one take a shit in private in this fucking house?”

Ian, walking with him to Yev’s room (Mandy’s old room), pressed his lips together, a flicker of doubt crossing his face, but he didn't say anything. Thank god.

Yev was settled in bed, a small smirk on his face. 

“Hey little man,” Mickey sighed, sitting on the bed next to his son. 

Being a father hadn’t been natural for Mickey. The kid was three years old now and it took more than half of his life until Mickey was able to really bond with him, until he could look at him without feeling that pressure in his chest trying to choke him. But Ian, thank god, had been there for the kid when he couldn't be. So, it had taken a while for him to get from _I can’t deal with this kid_ to _I love my son_ , but he found a way. He kinda had to.

Mickey reached out and moved Yev’s hair out of his eyes. He needed a haircut, but Svetlana always put it off, loving how the kid’s hair curled at the ends. The blond was darkening, would probably be as dark as Mickey’s by the time he was grown. That’s what happened to Mickey, at least. He’d been a little blond-headed shit running around, until one winter when he was five, it started to darken. Then it didn't stop.

“Sleepy Papa?” Yev asked him, grabbing onto Mickey’s U-UP hand. He traced his little pointer finger over the letters, had always been fascinated with the ink on his father’s skin.

Mickey nodded, “I am. Are you? Shoulda been sleeping already, little shit.”

Yev nodded, yawning on cue. 

“We got a big day tomorrow, you gonna be good?” Mickey asked, feeling Ian’s hand rub over the top of his head; he leaned back into the touch. “Not gonna give any shit, right? You’re a big boy now, gotta act like it.”

Yev nodded, holding out his tiny pinky finger, “Promise.”

Mickey curled his pinky finger with Yev’s. “A’ight.”

“You know what happens if you break a pinky promise?” Ian kneeled down next to Yev’s bed, leaning forward a bit with that wicked grin.

Yev rolled his eyes and giggled, shaking his head, “No.”

Ian lightly poked at the crook of Yev’s neck until the kid started cackling, “We bite all your fingers right off, that’s what.”

Mickey watched Ian and Yev battle it out with tickles and goofy ass laughing until they were interrupted by a cough from the doorway. Svetlana, wrapped in a robe, was in full mom-mode, eyebrows perched high, arms crossed over her chest, “If he does not sleep tonight, he stays in your room.”

Mickey turned back to Yev and pulled a face, making the kid cackle. If there _was_ one thing Mickey was good at, in terms of being a dad, it was making goofy ass faces to get Yev to laugh. Especially if those faces were in response to Svetlana. The kid fucking loved it.

“Did you read to him already?” Ian asked Svetlana.

“I did,” she answered, “Just needs to be tucked in. Go to sleep Yevgeny, I love you,” she blew him a kiss.

“Love you mama!” he called over, blowing a kiss back to her. She caught it, brought her fist to rest on her chest, winked at Yev, then disappeared down the hall.

“You n’ Dada tuck me in?” the kid asked Mickey.

Svetlana taught Yev to call her _Mama_ and Mickey _Papa_ , while she taught him her native tongue. As much as the harsh language was frustrating to Mickey, _mostly since he couldn't understand a fucking word of it_ , he was glad his kid would be bilingual, give him a little bit of an edge up against other kids. (Plus, how badass would Yev Milkovich be when he’s older, running around speaking Russian? Pretty fucking badass.)

But what to call Ian and Nika had been a different journey altogether; they all decided to let the kid figure that out on his own, calling them what he felt comfortable with. First it had been Een and Neek, when he was learning to talk. Then Een turned into Ornboy (which Mickey thought was fucking _hilarious_ ). 

He finally settled on calling Nika _Mom_ , and _Dada_ for Ian, but all fucking adorable and _daduh_. Ian practically melted every time the kid called him that. It made Mickey a little proud, a little warm on the back of his neck.

Ian leaned over, kissed Yev’s forehead, “Night Yevy.”

“Night Dada.”

Mickey tucked the blanket up under Yev’s little chin, ruffled his hair and kissed his forehead, “Night, kid.”

“Night Papa.”

Ian turned off the light and they closed the door on their way out. Mickey felt that exhaustion and ache wash over him again, he couldn't stop the layers of thoughts and worries. When they got into bed, Ian rubbed Mickey’s back, sunk his fingers into his hair, rubbing his scalp; Mickey sighed and relaxed from the touch, it was perfect. 

Ian did all this without saying anything, without asking him anything. It was probably better that way, since Mickey didn't want to talk. He knew if he started talking, he’d get lost in it, maybe slip up. Somehow Ian knew that; he didn't push him to talk about shit he didn't want to talk about, not anymore.

Then Ian curled up behind him in bed, and the layers of thought and worry faded back to the background again, where they belonged. It all just settled so Mickey could close his eyes and fall asleep.

* * *

“What the fuck are you doing?” Ian asked, his brows drawn together tightly. He said it as if he’d walked in on Mickey kicking a puppy or something equally horrifying.

Mickey honestly hadn’t been expecting that reaction when Ian walked into the bathroom to find him wrapping skin-colored bandaids around his fingers. They were going to Lincoln Park for their interview with a good preschool for Yev. Serena had suggested the school, saying they had pretty small classes and excellent teachers. Even though they didn't have a Lincoln Park address yet, Svetlana wanted to make sure Yev had a spot secured.

Mickey had _assumed_ that it was _very_ clear to everyone that the profanity inked into his skin would have to be covered up, if they had any hope on getting Yev into this school. 

He stepped back when Ian reached for his hands, “Ay. A nice school ain’t gonna be all that thrilled about a guy walking in that has _fuck_ tattooed on his fucking fingers, you know that. They’re _bandaids_ , chill.”

Ian sighed, his face pulled into a grimace, “Since when do you care what those people think?”

“Since I’m trying to get the kid in a good school in Lincoln Park. Stop making that fucking face at me, _please_. Just go get Yev in the car and stop acting like you don’t know this is necessary.”

“Those look ridiculous.”

“Yeah well…” Mickey rolled his eyes. “I shouldn’t have downed a twelve pack and let my fucking brother near me with a needle and a pen, but here we fucking are. I mean, it’s bad enough all of us are walking in—” Mickey clamped his mouth shut and shook his head. _Fuck._

“It’s bad enough that all of us are walking in…?” Ian prompted, folding his arms over his chest. “Go ahead, finish what you were gonna say. Bad enough Yev’s being raised by a bunch of queers? Or fags —which one is it this time?”

Mickey shook his head again, keeping his voice low, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You’re fucking unbelievable. Still Mickey, _really_? Real good example you’re setting for Yev,” Ian huffed at him, reached into the medicine cabinet for his meds and left the bathroom. 

“Shit… _shit_ ,” Mickey whispered to himself. Why couldn't he just _not_ talk sometimes? 

Had he really meant it _that_ way? No, he didn’t. But he didn't know how shit worked in Lincoln Park and if people there were anything like people in South Side, Yev was going to have a _real_ fucking hard time in school. 

Mickey used to be one of those fucking assholes who picked on other kids relentlessly for the smallest shit, had even kicked a kid in the stomach for having two moms when he was eight. Kids were awful and mean and looked for anything to sink their nasty little teeth into. He knew. He _was_ one of those kids.

Svetlana then came into the bathroom and plopped down on the toilet.

“The fuck?” Mickey pulled a face, “Can you not wait five fucking minutes—”

“No, I cannot wait.” 

“Can’t fucking wait until I don’t have to live with your ass anymore,” Mickey mumbled.

“Feeling is mutual. You cover tattoos and then ready to go, yes? Everyone is waiting in the car.” Svetlana said, flushing the toilet. “Orange Boy is mad at you? His face is red like tomato.”

“Not fucking talking about it with you,” Mickey sighed, finishing up with the bandaids, “Let’s just get this the fuck over with.”

* * *

Before the five of them walked into the school, Mickey took Ian by the arm and pulled him off to the side, telling Svetlana and Nika to give them a minute. Ian hadn't spoken a word to him the entire car ride and it was just getting ridiculous.

“You gonna give me the chin all day?” Mickey asked.

Ian shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged, “You gonna keep making stupid comments about how Yev is being raised?”

“I didn't mean it that way, and you know it,” Mickey sighed.

Ian let out a harsh breath, “Yeah, see here’s the thing Mickey, I _don’t_ know that.”

He hated when Ian called him Mickey like that. He had a point though. Mickey didn't exactly have the greatest track record when it came to making asshole comments about the whole _all the parents are gay in this family_ thing.

Mickey took a deep breath, looking over at his son waiting for him and Ian; he stood between Svetlana and Nika, a little black beanie fit snugly on his head. Mickey wasn’t good at this whole _words_ thing all the time, but he needed to get this shit real clear, real fast.

“I don’t want the kid getting shit on because of all of us,” Mickey said. “Because we ain’t the Brady Bunch. We’re all fucking gay, _and_ from South Side, his mom’s are a couple of Russian whores, one of his dad’s a high-school dropout pimp with a record a mile long… for fuck sake, his name is _Yevgeny Milkovich_. Is this kid ever gonna get a fucking break?”

“We don’t have anything to be ashamed of.”

"That's not..." Mickey shook his head, “I’m not _ashamed_ , Ian. I’m fucking _worried_ , okay. Do you know how fucking awful children are? Because I do. I was one of those kids that woulda had a field day with Yev. _Fuck_. And it ain’t his fault we’re so fucked up. Doesn't matter though, little fuckers like me at that age, they don’t give a shit.”

Ian sighed, resting his hands on Mickey’s shoulders, “You’re making snap judgements about preschoolers, Mick. _Preschoolers_.”

“Ain’t talking about just preschool,” Mickey shook his head.

“We’ll deal with that shit when we get to it. Middle school, high school, all that shit…” Ian said. “That’s a long ways a way. And you know what, if I know one thing for sure, it’s that Mickey Milkovich will _not_ let _his_ son be bullied. That’s a fucking guarantee. But, you do know there are kids that exist that are nice. Kids who aren’t bullies, who don’t care about that shit.”

Mickey gave Ian a little smirk, “You sticking around for that long?”

“Yeah, if you stop with the bullshit,” Ian grinned, knocking the back of his hand against Mickey's shoulder. "Prick."

“You two done with bitch fight? Appointment in two minutes!” Svetlana called over, “We go in now!”

Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose, “Please let me kill her. We can find another prostitute to be Yev’s mom. I’ve got like twenty of those bitches on retainer. Just pick one.”

Ian laughed and elbowed Mickey in the ribs, “Be nice.”

“We good?” Mickey asked Ian.

Ian nodded, “We’re always good. Yev’s gonna be good too. It’ll be okay. Besides…” Ian dropped his voice a little, “Svet and Nika can’t be working forever, you know?”

Mickey snorted a laugh, “True.”

The preschool in Lincoln Park was ten times nicer than the high school in South Side. The hallways were bright and clean and cheerful, vibrant colors and children's artwork pinned up on huge cork boards. The director of the school gave them a short tour, letting them peak into a full classroom and an empty one as well.

The director’s name was Mrs. Lobo, an older hispanic woman with a warm smile and a cross hanging rom her necklace. Mickey couldn't really get a read on her, couldn't tell what she thought of the little army that came walking in with Yev. But she’d been nice to the kid, letting him look around the empty classroom and see what it was all about.

And then Yev spent some time with one of the teachers, Miss Casey, where he was asked a few questions —colors, shapes, that sort of thing; Yev was given a couple things to do like move a chair or go get a certain book, things that Mickey didn't really understand why, but there had to be a reason. Then they drew pictures and played and Yev just fell in love with her. Miss Casey had a little more personality than Mickey really knew what to do with. But as long as she was nice to his kid, he really didn't care.

Mrs. Lobo asked all the adults little questions here and there. Things that Mickey assumed gave her a better idea of what kind of family Yev was coming from. Mickey told her that he was part owner in an executive match-making business, like Angela had told him to say. It came out all weird though, Mickey felt weird saying it. He was a pimp, not a fucking love guru, trying to find true love for other people.  

Ian, Svetlana and Nika all smiled at him when he answered the question, like they were getting the biggest fucking kick out of his answer. But other than that, the whole day went better than Mickey thought it would. He was really out of his element, never having cared much about school for himself, but it mattered more for Yev —and Mickey had to be a dad, this is what good dads did, he assumed.

* * *

They stopped for ice cream on the way back to South Side, because Yev fucking earned that shit, like a fucking champ. Then Svetlana and Nika took Yev to a movie and to buy proper school clothes, because they could do that shit now, just go out and spend money on the kid.

* * *

The door was unlocked when they got home. For a second, Mickey’s whole world felt like it was collapsing in on itself. What if Terry got out early? What if he was waiting for him with a fucking shotgun or something? 

Everything had been going so good and Mickey had been a fucking idiot to think it would just keep playing out that way. In about the span of three seconds, Mickey had already ran through about a hundred different scenarios on how this was going to play out, if Terry was back. 

He braced himself, pushing open the door, feeling that pressure in his chest again, trying to wedge himself between Ian and the house. Because if Terry was back, Ian would be just as much of a dead man as he was, and Mickey’d be damned if he couldn't give Ian a head start to get the fuck out of there.

But inside, curled up on the couch, under the shitty thread-bare blanket… was Mandy. Her hair was dark again, tied up on top of her head; she was sleeping.

“Oh my god,” Ian breathed, squeezing Mickey’s arm. 

Mickey ran a hand over his hair, felt his stomach bottom out as he inhaled until it felt like his lungs would burst. An entire tidal wave of relief crashed onto him.

Holy shit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On one hand, I feel like I'm slipping away from my original plan for this story, with having the family & relationship more background, but on the other hand, I really love exploring these different sides to everyone. So I guess we're just gonna go with it. 
> 
> I miss Angela though, so obviously we can't abandon the business! There's work to be done!


	9. Mandy Milkovich: Trooper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian sat on the couch next to Mandy and touched her hair, moving strands out of her face until she woke up and smiled at him. Mandy smiled at Ian like she’d seen the sun for the first time; she loved that big idiot so much. 
> 
> Then again, in general, there was something about the Gallagher’s that fascinated the Milkovich’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA 1: I wrote some of this while drunk.

Upon the return of Mandy Milkovich, there was a party. 

A Milkovich-Gallagher style party, of course. Svetlana got a couple of the girls to watch the littlest ones for the night, so that the adults wouldn't have to worry about kids running around. Mickey sent Iggy out to buy as much alcohol and weed as he could with three hundred dollars and the Gallaghers brought over music, food and even more alcohol.

But hours before the party was even a thought, before Mickey got shit-faced drunk and Ian allowed himself a beer to catch up with him… before all that, there was the moment he and Ian walked through the door to find Mandy curled up on the couch, after being gone for so fucking long.

Mickey and Mandy always had an odd relationship. They weren’t terribly close, but they weren’t _not_ close either —they understood each other; how could you not, growing up in that house, though. 

The Milkovich kids’ version of sibling bonding was staying up until odd hours of the morning and smoking in silence, or giving each other shit, or knocking each other around —or knocking _other_ people around together. They weren’t the family that huddled together and talked about their feelings, gave each other pats on the back, or filled out birthday cards. And if you did any one of those things, you could fully expect it to haunt you for the rest of your fucking life. 

Mandy was not only the baby, but the only girl (that grew up in this house). The Milkovich boys used to call her Trooper because she kept up with them without complaint and could hold her own against any one of them. The girl could keep up with anybody, get through anything.

Mickey didn't throw around words like love. Didn’t really think he loved many people. But he knew he loved his sister, hated watching her leave, was worried about her when she was away. The thing was, you couldn't tell Mandy what to do with her life —no one could tell her what to do with her life; she made her own decisions (even if those decisions were the worst ones for her) and if you couldn't get on board, then you could fuck off. So Mickey couldn't _force_ her to stay, even when he wished he could.

Ian sat on the couch next to Mandy and touched her hair, moving strands out of her face until she woke up and smiled at him. Mandy smiled at Ian like she’d seen the sun for the first time; she loved that big idiot so much. 

Then again, in general, there was something about the Gallagher’s that fascinated the Milkovich’s.

She wrapped her arms around Ian’s neck and they just sat there and hugged. Ian was saying something into Mandy’s shoulder that Mickey couldn't hear. Whatever it was, it made Mandy laugh and say, “You’re such a dork.”

And then Mandy looked over at Mickey, her lips setting themselves in a smirk, her eyes all glassy and hair a fucking mess. She launched herself off of the couch and all but tackled him in a hug. Mickey wrapped his arms around his sister and laughed, his whole body just feeling an exhale because of his sister’s return. At least he knew she was relatively safe here, knew she was in one piece.

Before he had the chance to ask, Mandy quietly said, “I don’t want to talk about it right now, I want to get fucking _drunk_.” Like she’d been anticipating his laundry-list of questions.

So that’s exactly what they did.

The music was shaking the packed house; it was everything you’d expect if the Milkovich and Gallagher kids threw a party together. 

There was laughing and yelling; along with his other spoils, Iggy had gotten his hands on three kegs, two of which had a Gallagher poised above, feet held high in the air by Milkovich’s. Surprisingly, Debbie lasted long than Carl.

Mandy looked at the redheaded girl with pride, snaking an arm around her shoulders, “Nobody fucks with Debbie Gallagher!” she yelled, holding a beer bottle up high, earning a chorus of hollers from everyone in the house.

Several joints were in rotation, along with Iggy’s nasty bong and a jar of moonshine that Mandy brought home. 

It was chaotic and loud, and if Angela’s brunch had been anything like this, then Mickey would have enjoyed himself. He wasn’t a party person, he didn't like big groups and small talk, but this… it was better with his family; he didn't feel like he was being buried alive. It wasn't small-talk, it was shit-talking. It wasn't a big group of strangers, it was family and friends who didn't care about politics or finances. They just cared about what was happening in that moment.

He yelled and laughed and drank until he felt like he was fucking invincible —which was a lot. Because Mickey could fucking _drink_. He drank until nothing else mattered, not the money or the fact that his whole life was turning upside down, nothing fucking mattered because right in that moment, everything was good. It was perfect. 

Drunk Mandy couldn't get enough of Ian. She had her arm looped in his almost the entire night, like if she let go, one of them would have floated away. Every time Mickey looked over at the two, she was petting his boyfriend’s face or giving him hugs or leaning into his side, singing along with the music playing.

“You know, if I didn't know how fucking gay you are, I’d be jealous,” Drunk Mickey grinned at Ian, motioning between the redhead and his sister.

“You _should_ be jealous!” Mandy laughed, “We’re gonna have a whole bunch turkey-baster babies! A whole hoard of ‘em. Gallagher style!”

“Oh yeah? ‘at’s cute,” Drunk Mickey raised his brows, unable to stop his amused smile. 

A Gallagher-Milkovich kid would have been fucking adorable. Ian’s hair and sweet face, Mandy’s eyes and fuck-you attitude. Mickey got kind of lost in the thought, completely aware now of how drunk he actually was. Would that be weird? If Ian and Mandy had a baby? It’s be weird, right? Yeah. But it’d be _cute_. They could name the kid something normal like… Olivia or fucking… Emma? Mickey was bad at names.

“Or Milkovich style —ere’s _so_ many of us,” Ian’s voice pulled him out of his drunk-mental-tangent.

“There _are_!” Mandy’s eyes went wide, “The fuck? Why so many?”

The rest of the night passed in a smoke-infused blur. All the Gallagher’s _(minus Lip of course, because the last person Mickey and Ian wanted around Mandy right now was fucking Lip, so that asshat hadn't been invited)_ kept up with the Milkovich’s. It wasn't a surprise, between the two families, they could shut down any liquor store at any given day.

Then some of Mickey’s girls showed up after Svetlana and Nika had invited them over; Carl was over the fucking moon about it, dancing with the girls and drunkenly trying to flirt. Mickey clamped his mouth shut tightly before he told Ian about the little thing that happened at the _Suited_ office… when Carl had a very obvious sexuality quagmire. 

He hadn't told Ian after that happened, and wouldn't tell him now. Mickey knew he’d hate it someone had done something shitty like that to him. The kid was smarter than he thought he was. He’d figure it out. Hopefully.

Then, as Mickey leaned against a wall, beer bottle in hand, watching Ian and Mandy sing and dance to a Beyonce song or some shit, he felt someone tap him on the shoulder.

“That your sister? She’s beautiful.”

At first he thought he was seeing things, Angela in jeans and a tank top, fucking casual as hell. He was used to seeing her in nice shit. The girls must have called her. 

“She ain’t a hooker,” Over his dead fucking body would that _ever_ happen. Mandy making her own life choices was one thing. Pimping her out was another.

“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to pimp out your baby sister.” Angela laughed, taking a swig from her own beer bottle. Her eyes were slightly blood-shot and narrowed; she must have intercepted a joint or two before approaching him. It was kind of nice to see her out of that business element, just hanging out.

“Is she coming with you to Lincoln Park?”

“Hope so,” Mickey shrugged. “She just got back today, haven’t talked about shit.”

Angela leaned closer to him, so she could talk over the music, “Well, remember you have lots of contacts now. You can set her up with a pretty decent job.”

Mickey nodded. He didn't even think of that, “Yeah I’ll talk to her.”

“I like this,” Angela motioned to the hoard of people in the Milkovich house, “It’s loud but it works. It’s nice. If I’d have known that this was how to get you to stick around for a party, I would’ve done something like this. This is fucking fun. Much better than that brunch.”

Mickey shook his head, grinning despite himself, “Ay, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why’re you so fucking nice to me?” Drunk Mickey, showing his face again, asked; his brows raising high. “I mean… all this shit. The job, letting me do my thing with the clients… I ain’t complaining. I just…” he shrugged, “Fuck, I dunno man.”

“Well, can I ask you something?”

Mickey nodded.

“Have you done something to me that should make me not want to be nice to you?”

He huffed a laugh, pulling on his cigarette, “A’ight.”

“I mean… do you want me to be mean to you?” Angela teased, knocking her shoulder against his. “I used to Domme here and there, I can be mean to you, if that’s what you want. A guy like you, I bet you’re a _good_ little sub, huh? Yes Sir, No Sir, Harder Sir—”

“Fuck. Off,” Drunk Mickey laughed hard, his eyes wide. He felt his whole face and back heat up —part shock, part embarrassment, part alcohol. 

Angela laughed with him, “No denial!”

“Ay, why you always gotta bring up my fucking sex life, huh?” Mickey asked. 

She did, here and there. It wasn’t a lot and really, Mickey couldn't give a fuck, she never did it in a fucked up and malicious way, just friendly teasing. At first he minded, but after a couple weeks, it was just part of their banter, part of who Angela was.

He was liking Angela more and more, the longer he knew her. She was cool and wasn’t afraid to talk shit with him. Mickey didn't have a lot of friends, but he considered Angela his friend now. There was just no judgement there, she already knew every fucking thing about him. It was kind of refreshing.

“We’re in the business of fucking,” Angela stated. “It’s our business to anticipate our clients needs. So that means, you should be able to look around the room and guess how everybody likes to fuck.”

“The _last_ fucking think I wanna think about is anyone in this house fucking.” Except Ian, obviously, but there was no need to point that out.

Angela rolled her eyes, “It’s not sexual, it’s just sex.”

That made no sense to Mickey, “What?”

Angela shook her head with a grin. “It’s just sex. You can think about sex objectively, right? That’s all you’re doing. If you watch someone, look at their personality, the way they carry themselves, how they speak, the way they look at their partner… you can put two and two together… they’re a freak, they’re a dead fish, straight up vanilla, likes it up the ass…”

This time it was Mickey’s turn to roll his eyes, “So you got everybody in here figured out?”

Angela side-eyed him, “You doubt me?”

Mickey held up his hands while he shrugged, swaying a little. God he was fucking drunk, to be talking about this shit with Angela like they were talking about the goddamn weather. He couldn't remember the last time he’d been this drunk.

Angela smirked at him before she called Ian over, over the loud pulse of the music. He’d been talking with Svetlana and Nika about something, but he broke off the conversation to come over to them; he hugged Angela, a goofy intoxicated smile spread out on his face.

“When’d you get here?” he asked her.

“A little bit ago,” she replied with a sly smile, “Do you mind being part of an experiment?”

Ian furrowed his brows, “What kind of experiment?”

“Proving a point to Mr. Milkovich, here.”

“Oh, of course,” Ian said, looking way too fucking delighted. Little did he know…

Mickey watched as Angela looked Ian up and down, then over to him, stroking her chin in an overly-dramatic way. He lit up another cigarette and waited. Ian gave him a questioning look as Angela skimmed her fingertips over his shoulders, walking a circle around him. It was kind of hilarious.

“I’d bet most people assume he’s a bottom,” Angela said. “But I’d say he’s versatile —though he shines as a top the most. And you, Mickey you’re versatile too but… I think you prefer bottoming. Specifically with Ian, anyone else you’ve fucked, well… I _think_ it’s safe to say that _you’ve_ fucked _them_.”

“Ay, you’re not doing me, you’re doing him,” Mickey reminded her. He already knew himself, knew how he liked to fuck or get fucked. No need to make this more awkward.

Ian’s eyes widened, the corners of his mouth pulling up a little, “What is happening?”

Mickey huffed a laugh, “Ay, reap what you sow motherfucker.”

Angela smiled, motioning to Ian’s face like she were Vanna White, “He’s got a beautiful face, some may say _sweet_. At first glance, you’d think he’s this innocent little pup. Probably why most people _assume_ he’s a bottom or maybe even too pretty to work for it. And we know Ian’s a good man, a nice guy but not you know, not a _nice guy_. South Side born and raised… probably not afraid to throw a punch, not afraid of a little confrontation. So we take that into consideration.” 

Angela slung an arm over Mickey’s shoulders and pointed towards Ian’s face again, she lowered her voice and continued, “You can see it in his eyes. That sharp edge he’s got right there, like a shark. This man is a powerhouse, am I right? _Definitely_ not afraid to put in the hard work to get what he wants.”

Mickey and Ian caught each other’s eyesight and grinned at each other, like they could both see the porno playing in Mickey’s head starring Ian fucking Gallagher and himself. Yeah, they were gonna have to lock themselves in their room after this to bang it out. Mickey was dangerously close to having to adjust himself. Powerhouse is fucking right.

Angela slid her arm off of Mickey, to walk around Ian again, “I bet Ian here has some pretty kinky little secrets. I bet he’s fucking _filthy_. He’s a regular wolf in sheep’s clothing. And that’s just talking about _fucking_ , not making love. That’s a whole other ballgame, right Mickey?”

Mickey caught his tongue in the corner of his mouth; because _yeah_.

“And _you_ , Mickey—”

“Nope,” Mickey shook his head. “Fuck no.”

“Mick, she’s like a sex psychic,” Ian said, his eyes widening again.

Mickey ran a hand down his face and groaned. His boyfriend’s inability to play it cool never ceased to amaze him.

“Not a sex psychic. I just know people,” Angela stated.

“Do someone else,” Ian said excitedly. “Do… Iggy.”

Mickey frowned, “Please no.”

“Or Colin,” Ian shrugged, “Or shit, I dunno… Carl.”

“I’d rather do her,” Angela tilted her head, completely distracted now. Her eyes lit up in interest, a little lift to the corner of her mouth.

Mickey followed her sight line and smirked, brushing his bottom lip with his thumb. Fiona was dancing with her hands up, a big ass goofy smile on her face. “Fiona?”

“She single?”

Ian chuckled, plucking Mickey’s beer bottle out of his hands, “Oh shit.”

Mickey laughed. “You like girls?”

“I like what I like,” Angela shrugged. “I like her.”

“Fiona’s a hood girl, not a Lincoln Park girl,” Ian said into the mouth of the bottle. “She will eat you for breakfast.”

“Isn’t that the idea?” Angela tilted her head and smiled.

Ian’s shoulders lurched forward as he choked on his mouthful of beer.

* * *

The morning after the party, Mickey woke up to the worst taste in his mouth possible, a crick in his neck and a headache so bad that it hurt to blink. He also woke up on the living room couch, pretty much ass-to-ass with Iggy, who was snoring loud enough to wake the fucking dead. It looked like they had been sitting next to each other and just passed the fuck out, falling to either end of the couch.

There wasn't a whole lot he remembered about the party, but bits and pieces kind of filtered in and out. Talking with Angela. Watching Mandy and Ian dancing, spinning each other around. Angela using her charms on Fiona. Carl throwing up in the front yard. Ian cornering him in the bathroom, kissing him until he couldn't breathe. The redhead had been drunk as hell, kept saying the sappiest shit that made Mickey roll his eyes.

His vision was bleary as he blinked his eyes a few times, rubbing at them, trying his best to suppress the pained groan from coming out. He slowly sat up and looked around. There were bodies draped everywhere around the living room, Gallagher’s and Milkovich’s and hookers… the stereo was still playing music, though it was turned way way down, thank fuck.

“Hey,” Mandy whispered as she bent down next to the couch, holding out a bottle of Gatorade and three pills —probably Advil, by the looks of it. The girl was fucking hang-over proof, Trooper that she was.

Mickey made a noise in the back of his throat, downing the pills. The Gatorade flushed his throat, soothing that nasty taste and feeling for a moment.

“Thanks for last night,” Mandy said, still a whisper. “I really needed it, you know?”

Mickey nodded, taking another drink, keeping his eyes closed. He felt kind of numb, kinda buzzy, kinda gross. He patted down his pockets, looking for his pack of cigarettes.

The flicking sound of a lighter catching fire made him grin. He peeked his eyes open, watching Mandy take a drag from the cigarette before passing it to him.

“You uh… you good?” Mickey asked, his voice croaking hoarsely.

“Of course I’m good,” Mandy replied, “Who the fuck do you think I am?”

Mickey smirked, “A’ight. Help me up, I gotta take a piss.”

Mandy snorted a laugh and held her hands out for him to grab onto, “Okay, but I’m not holding your dick for you.”

“Ugh,” Mickey pulled a face, “You’re gonna make me fucking puke.”

On the way to the bathroom, Mickey poked his head into his room, seeing Ian face down in bed, still fully clothed, the sheets tangled up in his legs. 

He took his time showering and brushing his teeth, scrubbing away a night’s worth of drinking way too much on an empty stomach. By the time he emerged from the bathroom, there was a significantly less amount of people strewn in the Milkovich house and his headache had dulled down to just a minor annoyance.

Mandy was curled up in one of the kitchen chairs, halfway through her cigarette. Mickey sat down next to her and lit up his own. They stayed just like that for a while; Mickey was trying to let this all soak in, his sister finally being back home. It was like a huge weight of worry that Mickey’d been trying to not think about had been lifted.

“You planning on sticking around?” Mickey asked.

“If that’s okay,” she said.

“Since when’ve you needed my fucking permission to do anything?” Mickey snorted, his voice coming out harsher than he had wanted it to.

Mandy shrugged, “I’m just saying, if there’s room…”

“Mands, there’s always room, you’re a part of this fucking family. Don’t be stupid.”

She smirked at him, pulling on her cigarette, “So Lincoln Park huh?”

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded, “Fucking weird, right?”

“I guess,” she shrugged. “You were bound to get out of here sometime.”

“You uh…” Mickey sighed, running his tongue over his bottom lip, “You gonna come with us? Get the fuck out before dad comes back?”

Mandy was quiet for a moment, pushing her hair out of her face, thinking. “Can’t have you paying my way, Mick. I’m not trying to fucking mooch for the rest of my life.”

Mickey pulled a face, “Well, you ain’t staying here when dad gets back. I can get you a job now, get you set up somewhere.”

She stayed quiet.

“Mands,” Mickey sighed, rubbing at his mouth, pulling at the words, “Please just come with me and Ian. Iggy and Colin can’t go, not when dad gets out. They gotta stay keep an eye out. But you can’t stay, you know that. Just like I can’t stay. He’ll kill me… and without me here, you…”

Mandy looked sharply at him, “Fuck off. I don’t want to stay here. But don’t think I can’t fucking handle myself.”

“I know you can handle yourself,” Mickey nodded, “Against the whole fucking world. Except Terry.” 

It didn't matter how strong any of the Milkovich kids were. Terry was a different kind of threat, a different kind of horror altogether. These kids had looked out for each other their entire lives, would kill for each other and beat people into the ground for each other. They were strong and defiant and ruthless when they had to be… but up against Terry, they had always been powerless. Terry’d made sure of that.

“Please, Mands,” Mickey sighed. “When we leave… as long as dad’s around, I’m not coming back to South Side. I’m out. I just… fuck, I dunno, I kinda need my sister and Ian needs his best friend. I ain’t trying to run your life.”

After a moment, she finally nodded, “Okay.”

Mickey let himself smile and nod back at her, pulling on his cigarette, “So we gotta worry about anyone coming after you? I gonna have to bury someone?”

Mandy rolled her eyes and laughed, “No, assbreath, no one’s coming after me.”

“You kill him?” Mickey asked, arching a brow.

She shook her head, “No. Should have, but I figured it’d probably be better for me if I didn’t. Don’t want that shit coming back to bite me in the ass, you know? Fucking forensics. It must have been so nice back before people could prove shit.”

Mickey nodded his head a little, stubbing his cigarette out, “I woulda done it, if you asked me to.”

“I know. That’s why I did’t ask you to do it.”

Mickey smirked, “Bitch.”

“Douchebag,” Mandy shot back with a grin. “So you’re like this big time pimp now, huh? Proud of you, big brother.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, “Fuck off.”

“I’m serious!” Mandy laughed, “Dick. There a lot of money to be made slinging pussy in Lincoln Park?”

He felt that flicker of something beat against the inside of his chest and pull at his gut, bringing back the worry, “Yeah.”

“That’s a lot of fucking pressure on you,” Mandy pointed out, she eyed him knowingly, silently asking if he was gonna crack anytime soon.

Mickey shrugged, “It’s fine.”

Mandy huffed a humorless laugh, “Just do me a favor —when it starts to not be fine anymore, fucking let someone know so you don’t scare the shit out of anyone.”

“That hasn’t happened in a long fucking time, Mands.”

“What hasn't happened?” Ian’s sleepy voice mumbled from behind Mickey.

Mickey looked behind him, seeing Ian had shrugged on a sweatshirt, pulling the hood up. He just stood there, rubbing at his eyes and yawning. It was one of those moments were the phrase “he’s so fucking cute” flitted through Mickey’s mind; he’d never say it out loud, especially in front of Ian and Mandy, but it was impossible to deny.

“Ay, you want some coffee?” Mickey asked.

“I want something for this headache,” Ian said, sitting in the chair behind Mickey. He rested his forehead on the back of Mickey’s shoulder and groaned, “No more drinking for me.”

“How much did you drink?” Mandy asked, sliding over the bottle of Advil and water.

“He’s a complete fucking lightweight now, because of his meds. Gets real fucked up, real fast,” Mickey explained, opening the bottle of Advil and passing a couple to Ian. “How many beers you end up having last night, two?”

“And a half,” Ian sighed, knocking back the pills.

Mickey shook his head, but didn't say anything. Ian knew better than that. Shouldn't have been drinking in the first place, but Mickey wasn’t looking for a fight. Besides, Ian knew his body well enough. He wouldn't have drank almost three beers if he didn't think he could handle it.

“You working today?”

“Called in sick,” Ian replied.

Mandy stood and walked over to Ian, running her fingers over his hair, “You want some eggs? Get something in your belly.”

Mickey’s jaw dropped open as he pulled a face, “Uh, excuse me?” Where the fuck were his eggs? Here this little shit was making her brother’s _boyfriend_ breakfast, but not her brother? What the fuck.

“What?” Mandy shrugged, setting her face all innocent.

Ian let out a pained laugh behind Mickey.

Mandy leaned her hands on the kitchen table and gave Mickey a wicked grin, “Are you still mad that he was my boyfriend first? Is that what this is about?”

Mickey’s eyes went wide, his mouth forming a disbelieving smile, “Fucking bitch.”

Mandy yelped a laugh and scrambled away from Mickey as he charged after her, around the kitchen. Ian covered his ears as the two youngest Milkovich kids — _adult_ kids— chased each other around the kitchen, grabbing onto each other’s arms and sides, pinching and playfully hitting. Mickey laughed loud, but Mandy laughed louder and for a minute, Mickey felt like he was seven years old again and it was fucking nice.

Fuck, he had missed his sister.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA 2: I told you.
> 
> Thank you for all of the love!   
> All the comments and kudos, everything! I'm having fun with this, so it's nice to know that other people are enjoying it too. Feedback appreciated! :)


	10. Boiling Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn't like being on this side of the desk, being the one taunted and pissed all over to be shown who was in charge. If this was karma, then he got the fucking message. Mickey had known that this little meeting was never going to be about business. He knew that all it was going to be was a couple of dirty cops throwing their weight around. 
> 
> It still didn’t lessen the burn of how badly he wanted to unleash holy hell on these fuckers. But he couldn't. He had to sit there like a bitch and take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is **part 1 of 2** because this got much longer than my usual chapters.
> 
>  **content warning:** slurs  & general not-niceness. _(also ??graphic-ish violent thoughts for a hot minute?? idk I'm just adding that warning in there just in case. nothing terrible idk it doesnt bother me idk idk -how many more idk can I add)_

The absolute last thing that Mickey could focus on was the new apartment, or the furniture that was being delivered. Ian and Mandy were taking care of all of that while Mickey went into the office.

(It was a pretty nice place. Mandy called it a _man-home_. There were exposed brick walls and the layout was all open with tall windows and wood floors; it wasn’t ridiculous like Angela’s place, but it was still more than Mickey ever thought he’d be able to afford. It also had three bedrooms —Mandy was going to stay with Ian and Mickey for a while, until she could start working and get a place of her own.)

He couldn't think about the apartment or the furniture or anything else because two police officers were expected to be walking into his office any minute. After this, he _probably_ wouldn't have to deal with them anymore, but since he just started working with Angela, it was kind of a necessity. 

Surreal didn’t even begin to cover the feeling when Angela’s clicking heels got louder and louder from the front of the office until she came through his door with the cops right behind her —in full fucking uniform, like a couple of complete idiots. Cocky bastards.

One looked like one of Terry’s skin-head buddies. The other had deeply tanned skin and stubble on his chin. Both looked like they thought they owned the place and everyone in it. So this was obviously going to really only go down one way: maddeningly.

Angela extended her arm, letting the two men walk past her and take their seats in front of Mickey’s desk. “Mickey, this is Officer Grant and Officer Moreno… can I get you gentlemen something to drink?”

The skin-head, Grant, tuned to look at Angela, “I’ll take a beer.”

Moreno shook his head, “I’m good.”

Then Angela left Mickey’s office. He wished she hadn’t. He wished these two jackasses would just fucking leave. Grant was looking at him like he’d caught Mickey’s hand in the goddamn cooke jar.

Angela had given Mickey the complete run-down on these guys. Basically, they were assholes. Smug, power-hungry dirty cops who would have undoubtedly done a full background on Mickey so they could come into his office and make it _very_ clear that they had all the power in this business relationship, that they could shut him down at a moments notice. 

Obviously, that wasn't going to work for Mickey, but he had a part to play. So he’d been trying to prepare himself for this for the past couple days.

“Mr. Milkovich—”

“Just call me Mickey,” he tried to keep his face passive, “All my friends do.”

Grant dipped his head, “Alright. _Mickey_. You’re Terry Milkovich’s kid, right? Your old man’s quite a piece of work. Word on the street is you were on the fast-track to becoming just like daddy. But I guess things change, right?”

“Guess so,” Mickey said. 

Okay. So obviously they weren’t going to waste any time with this shit. 

Mickey already didn't like where this was going. Grant was going to be a fucking problem. He rubbed at his mouth, reminding himself that he could not, under any circumstances, punch this fucker in the mouth. The problem was that Grant knew this, knew that he had Mickey by the fucking balls.

“That’s a nice stick-and-poke job, you got there. Kinda white-trash chic,” Moreno gestured to Mickey’s hands, “You get that done in juvie?”

Mickey slowly shook his head, watching Angela come back into his office with Grant’s beer. Grant took the bottle from her, his other hand reaching up to slide across her waist, then dipping down further than it should have been. Angela tensed up. Mickey adjusted himself in his chair to cover the fact that he was stopping himself from reaching across and hitting the guy. What a fucking creep.

Angela then stood next to Mickey, behind the desk, but kept silent. 

“No… my brother’s work,” he finally replied.

“Which one, Iggy? Colin?” Grant asked, this slow leer spreading on his face. When Mickey didn't answer, he took a long swig of his beer, “But you got a younger sister though too, right? Ah, what did it say her name was… Mindy? Mandy? I’ve seen the pictures. Wonderful thing, the internet. Have to say, she definitely got the good genes in the family. She looks a lot like your mother, doesn't she?”

He’d start by gutting him, dick to throat, one fell swoop of the big hunting knife Mickey kept in his dresser drawer. Shouldn't take long for the fucker to bleed out. Mickey must have leaned forward a little, because Angela’s hand rested softly on his shoulder, stilling him. He took a couple deep breaths, forcing his body to lean back against his chair.

He didn't like being on this side of the desk, being the one taunted and pissed all over to be shown who was in charge. If this was karma, then he got the fucking message. Mickey had known that this little meeting was never going to be about _business_. He knew that all it was going to be was a couple of dirty cops throwing their weight around. 

It still didn’t lessen the burn of how badly he wanted to unleash holy hell on these fuckers. But he couldn't. He had to sit there like a bitch and take it.

“Our usual deal still stands, correct?” Angela cut in before anything else could be said.

Grant and Moreno looked at each other and nodded.

“That the money?” Grant asked, pointing to a white envelope on the desk. Mickey nodded, sliding it towards them. Grant picked it up and pocketed it.

“How do your girls look?” Moreno asked Mickey.

“They look good,” Mickey replied. "They look real good."

“How’s your wife look though?” Grant smiled.

Mickey tucked his lips between his teeth, keeping in the snarl that threatened to surface.

He’d felt a lot of things over the years, when it came to Svetlana. He’d felt anger. He’d felt frustration, and misplaced hate, and resentment… he’d felt fear. Sometimes he even felt twinges of pride, and friendship, and understanding.

But the one thing he’d never thought he’d feel, when it came to Svetlana was an odd, fierce protectiveness. Maybe it was simply because she was the mother of his child. Who knew. All he _did_ know was that he didn't like the way Grant smiled when he asked about her. He didn't want him anywhere near her —the last thing that Mickey wanted was something bad happening to Svetlana because Grant was trying to flex his power over him.

“I gotta ask… what kind of man pimps out his own wife? That’s kind of fucking sick man, you must really hate her or something,” Moreno laughed. “I mean, that’s mother of your child. Does she kiss your son with that whore mouth?”

Mickey clenched his fists as tightly as he could, feeling it ache all the way up into his shoulders.

“Oh no, he doesn't care about the wife,” Grant corrected his partner, “He’s too busy getting plowed by his boyfriend. That’s why your dad wants you dead, right? Because you’re fagging around with that ginger basket-case?”

Mickey abruptly stood from his seat, his chair screeching under him, his lip pulling back in a snarl. Dead. He wanted them dead, buried in the ground, fucking dead. After he gutted Grant, he was going to just put Moreno out of his fucking misery and make him eat a bullet from his own gun. Dozens other scenarios ran through Mickey’s head, his mind working over-time in planning the deaths of two dirty cops who couldn't keep their fucking mouths shut. 

The cops just looked up at him with _I dare you_ written in their eyes. Both of them, smug pieces of shit. Angela’s hand was back on Mickey’s shoulder, squeezing him lightly. Mickey took deep breaths, pushing down that pressure in his chest until he could breathe steady again.

He forced his hand out, “It was nice meeting you two. If you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do here.”

After Mickey shook their hands —Grant had a grip like a goddamn vise— he watched them leave, making plans with Angela about sending a couple girls their way.

Mickey was so worked up from the meeting that he felt numb, kept staring at his blank computer screen, wanting nothing more than to throw it out the fucking window. Then Angela came back, leaning in his office doorway, two brown bottles in hand.

“You okay?” she asked, “I told you they were pieces of work.”

Mickey nodded, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Angela walked into his office, setting one of the bottles in front of Mickey. He promptly opened it and downed a third of the beer. It was ice cold and soothed his throat.

“I’m not really sure why I didn't think of this before,” she said, going to the bookshelves behind his desk. “I mean, I don't know what we can do with this, but I am more than on board for whatever you’re planning.”

“Just trying to level the field,” Mickey said, watching Angela set the tiny video camera on his desk. “They come in once a month, right?”

Angela nodded, “Like clockwork. They take the money, I set up an appointment for a couple girls to throw them a freebie.”

“A’ight, we’ll keep recording every time they come in,” Mickey sighed, taking a swig of his beer. “Give them a few months to think they got me where they want me.”

“Sounds good,” Angela grinned, clinking her beer bottle against his.

 

* * *

 

“Keep walking, asshole,” Mickey hissed, pushing Carl up the front steps to the Gallagher house. “Cannot _believe_ this shit!”

Carl scrambled up the steps, looking more like that punk twelve year old kid than a sixteen year old, “Wait! Mickey, come on—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey growled, throwing open the front door. “Fiona! Ian! I need a fucking witness.”

As soon as Mickey walked through the door, he threw Carl onto the old couch. The kid landed with an _oof_ sound, crumpling against the cushions. The Gallagher’s were up in arms, charging into the small living room.

“Mickey, what the fuck?” Lip yelled.

Ian’s brows shot up as he walked into the living room, Yev by his side, “Mick, what’s going on?”

Fiona bustled from behind everyone, making her way through the small hoard, “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

Mickey took a deep breath, glaring down at Carl. The kid had his elbows resting on his knees, head in his hands. “Why don’t you tell your sister and Ian what happened when I walked into the fucking Kash and Grab ten minutes ago.”

Carl shook his head, “Please Mickey…”

“No,” Mickey bit out, “You look them in the fucking eye and tell them what I walked into. Right now.”

“Carl, what happened?” Fiona folded her arms over her chest, “What did you do?”

“Carl, what did you do?” Lip prompted when the kid didn't answer.

He sighed, running his hands over his hair, “I was making a deal.”

“And _what_ were you dealing?” Mickey raised his brows.

“Crystal,” Carl murmured.

“Crystal,” Mickey repeated. He looked at Ian, “In the Kash and Grab. The job that _you_ got him.”

(The fact that Mickey had dealt _a lot_ of drugs in the Kash and Grab, including crystal, was not brought up and was completely fucking irrelevant, as far as he was concerned. They had a fucking agreement.)

Ian ran a hand over his face, “What that fuck.”

“Jesus Christ,” Fiona sighed as the rest of the household started in on Carl. 

Normally Mickey would feel bad for the kid. But not this time. This time, he was pissed, and the kid deserved every single bit of what was coming his way. Carl was lucky Mickey had a soft spot for him, otherwise he’d be missing teeth. Mickey already had a shitty day and this on top of it was pushing him past his fucking boiling point.

“I don’t get it man,” he said to Carl. “I fucking told you… you go to school, you get a job, you come help me, that’s _it_. No more dealing or else helping me is off the fucking table. And you throw it in my fucking face like this?”

“Mickey, it’s not like that—” 

“What’s it like then? I’m about two seconds away from calling Mother Russia on your ass. You think _I’m_ an asshole? You’ve never been on the wrong side of that bitch. It ain’t pretty.”

“Mickey, I’m sorry—”

“No, man, I’m done,” Mickey shook his head, leaning into the kid, “I know it’s a lot —school and the job and helping me, then coming home and helping your sister. But you’re South Side, you gotta handle it, shit gets heavy, man.” 

“I know—”

“Shut. The fuck. Up. I don’t wanna hear _I know._ I told you, the next time I catch you fucking dealing, it’s over. And here we are. So if you don’t start talking right fucking now, I’m _done_ , then you can go back to dealing. If _you_ don’t give a shit, _I_ don’t give a shit.”

“Get the _fuck_ out of his face, Mickey,” Lip cut in, stepping forward. “Ian, you’re gonna let him talk to Carl like that?”

“Lip, back off,” Ian said, shaking his head, “Carl fucked up.”

Mickey looked over at Lip, “Not anywhere _near_ your fucking business, College. This is between me and the kid, we had an agreement.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Lip’s face turned red as he took another step forward. “You make a little money and you think you _own_ this fucking family now? Fuck you! You’re not his fucking dad, Mickey! You have no right—”

“Calm down, College, I don’t think I own your family. Stop being so fucking dramatic.”

“Why don’t you go deal with your own family’s problems and stay the fuck out of mine. This is a _family_ problem. We don’t need help from a fucking Milkovich,” Lip taunted.

“Lip!”

“He is a part of this family,” Ian turned on his brother, “Back the fuck off, Lip, I’m fucking serious. I’m not playing with you, man.”

The room was too small and there were too many people crowded around the couch. The tension mounted and built like a cork in a champagne bottle. Mickey kept his eyes shifting between Carl and Lip, completely just at a loss for words. He gave this kid a second chance and he just fucking blew it. For what?

“Ian, you’re out of your mind if you think I’m gonna let Mickey fucking Milkovich talk to my little brother that way,” Lip bit out before turning to Mickey, “Lincoln Park Bitch.”

Mickey barked a laugh; he took a step forward, feeling Ian’s hands grab onto his shoulders. “I’ve been waiting _all_ fucking day to break someone in half,” he snarled. “You really wanna do this?”

“Fuck you!” Lip spat.

“Lip stop!”

“I bet you’d just fucking _love_ if Carl kept dealing, wouldn't you?” Mickey taunted the oldest Gallagher brother. Yeah he might have been itching for a fight. “That way you can still hold on to South Side a little longer! I mean, you figure he’s not _ever_ leaving this place—” 

“Mick, back up!”

Lip shook his head, raising a middle finger, “Fuck you, Mickey, you don’t know shit!”

“—As long as _he_ fucks up, you still got your South Side cred, right? Well I got news for you, motherfucker… that ain’t how it works! You can’t build your little robots in your big ivy tower and come back down to the dirt and hustle once a week and _still_ call yourself South Side!”

“Ivory! _Ivory_ tower, you _stupid_ prick!” Lip reached over and shoved at Mickey’s shoulder. “Have fun trying to make it in Lincoln Park with your whores, and your white trash tattoos, and your mile long juvie record, you piece of shit!”

Mickey charged forward, despite Ian being in the way, “Yeah thats fucking right! Fucking kills you, doesn't it?! I brought South Side with me, motherfucker! You just left like a _bitch!_ ” he snarled, shoving forward until he could reach out around Ian and push hard at Lip’s chest. 

“Mickey stop! Enough!”

“Lip!”

“I’ll give it six months before you fuck it all up, Mickey! Six months!”

Mickey saw red, his heart pounding in his ears. There was a loud roar of yelling and pushing. Lip managed to hit Mickey in the jaw while Mickey grabbed at him and threw his fist out, decking Lip between the eyes. It only lasted for a few moments until Ian grabbed Mickey’s shoulders hard, pushing him out of the middle of the commotion. 

“Mick! _Mickey!_ Calm down! Don’t you fucking do this in front of Yev!”

_Fuck_. It was like a bucket of ice water over his head. He completely forgot Yev was in the house, let alone the room. Mickey looked around the living room until he saw his son, who was looking at him with wide eyes. He was huddled by the stairs, his little arms folding across his little chest. Mickey’s breath caught in his throat; everything kind of slowed down around him. Fuck. Not good. He fucked up. He fucked up real bad.

Lip was still hollering, but Mickey wasn't listening.

“Lip, stop!” He heard Fiona saying. “This is ridiculous! Outside! Go!”

“Fuck you, Lip,” Ian hissed before telling Yev to go play with Liam upstairs. 

Mickey watched his son slowly make his way up the stairs, looking back down at him a couple times. After he disappeared around the corner, Mickey felt his body hum and shake as he forced himself to calm down. Sure, he’d argued with people in front of his son. He thrown little bullshit threats here and there, but he’d never _fought_ in front of him, not like _that_. 

He’d never gotten violent in front of his kid, made it a point not to. Yev looked scared and it put that pressure back into Mickey’s chest. Was he like Terry —fighting and screaming like that in front of his son? He didn’t want Yev to be around that shit.

“He’s okay,” Ian said to Mickey, grabbing the back of his neck, “Just talk to him after this, okay?”

Mickey nodded, watching Lip stalk out of the living room and go into the kitchen. Then he turned his attention back to Carl, barely able to concentrate, “How much uh… how much do you owe G-Dogg?” 

Carl shook his head, sitting back down on the couch, “Nothing, man. I swear.”

“Then why are you dealing?” Ian sat down next to Carl, “What the fuck are you thinking?”

Carl took a deep breath, dragging his hands over his face, “I’m just trying to get some extra money.”

“For what?” Mickey asked. “What do you need money for? You’ve got a paycheck now. And I throw you some money when you help me. Yeah, most of that shit goes to your sister, but lets be fucking honest here, you keep some of that too. So who do you owe money to?”

“I don’t owe anyone money!” Carl threw out his hands.

“What’s the money for, then?” Ian asked.

Carl shook his head and sighed.

Mickey exhaled, trying to push away the urge to shake the kid to death. His body was still buzzing from fighting with Lip, his jaw aching from the punch, and he couldn't quite shake the sight of Yev looking at him in fear. He knelt in front of Carl so he could look at his face, and reached out to put his hand on his shoulder, “You get some chick pregnant?”

Fiona groaned, "Oh god, please no."

“No,” Carl said. "I didn't, I swear."

“Okay. Last chance. What’s the money for?”

Carl’s face went red, “It’s just… it’s just Fi and me and Liam in the house and…” he looked up at his sister, “I wanna get us out of South Side, Fi. I’m just trying to save up, you know? Liam’s smart, he’ll go to college. We’ll need money for that too.”

Mickey nodded and stood up, looking over at Fiona, who’s eyes were full of tears. Now he felt like shit. He and Ian looked at each other and sighed. 

This fucking kid was too much, trying to be the man of the house. Carl had these moments where you swore he was an actual fucking saint. Mickey couldn't stop himself from breathing out a laugh. Only Carl Gallagher.

“Oh my god,” Fiona per her hands on either side of her face, sighing, “Carl…”

“Carl, man that’s uh… that’s real nice, but it’s not your responsibility,” Lip said, appearing back in the living room.

Mickey rolled his eyes, forcing himself to keep his mouth shut. 

Carl pulled a face, “I’m sixteen now, the fuck it’s not my responsibility! _I’m_ gonna get us out of South Side. Then Liam can go to a good school. And Fiona can live somewhere that doesn't have rats in the basement or mold in the bathroom—” 

“Carl,” Fiona said softly.

“No! This house is bullshit! You guys are so fucking obsessed with staying South Side, it’s _stupid_. You can bank anywhere. You can be hard anywhere. Fiona deserves to live somewhere nice, she raised all of us by herself! _I’m_ gonna get us out. And I’m gonna run wherever we end up. Fucking watch me.” 

Despite himself, Mickey grinned, keeping his head down. This fucking kid.

Fiona knelt in front of Carl and took his face in her hands, “You don’t have to do that, Carl. I’m gonna be fine. I'm fine here.”

But Carl shook his head, “Fine’s not good enough. I’m a man now, I gotta step up and act like it, take care of my family. That’s what you do, right?”

The kid was serious, so there was no changing his mind. Mickey smirked at the scene in front of him and shoved his hands into his pockets, already trying to come up with different options for Carl. The kid wanted to step up.

“Lemme figure something out for you, okay?” Mickey said.

Carl looked up at him with wide eyes, “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded. “You serious about this shit?”

Carl nodded, “Yeah. I can do it.” he looked at his sister, “I can, Fiona, I swear.”

“A’ight, lemme figure some things out,” Mickey shrugged, then pointed at the kid, “But if I fucking catch you dealing ever fucking again, I’m not gonna be so nice about it. All these Gallagher’s as my witness, I knock all the teeth out of your fucking head. Do you understand?”

Carl nodded quickly, “I understand. I promise, no more dealing.”

“Okay,” Mickey sighed, “I gotta fucking smoke.”

“Need a beer?”

Mickey swiveled his head around at the sound of Angela’s voice, “What the fuck? When the fuck did you get here?”

Angela, sometime between the time he left the Suited office and now, had changed into her casual clothes and brought over a twelve pack to the Gallagher house. What the fuck was she doing here? She grinned at him, handing over a can.

“About the time you were ready to break someone in half.”

“Jesus,” Mickey sighed, shaking his head. He cracked open his beer and took a long drink, watching the Gallagher’s make their way into the kitchen for dinner.

“Fiona invited me,” Angela told him with a grin.

Mickey rolled his eyes, “Is that happening?”

She shrugged, “Maybe. I’ll see you in there. Try not to kill anyone, Hulk.”

“Ah, fuck off,” Mickey huffed a laugh, raising his brows at Ian, who was walking toward him, holding Yev’s hand.

“I can’t get a fucking minute?” Mickey murmured to Ian, his shoulders dropping, “It’s been a shit day, man.”

“He wanted to talk to you,” Ian replied, gently taking Mickey’s beer can.

Yev climbed up on the couch when Mickey sat down, his big blue eyes watching him with complete focus. Mickey didn't really know what to say to the kid. Sorry? Would that even do anything? Ian leaned down and pressed his lips to the tops of his and Yev’s heads before he went to join everyone in the kitchen.

“Papa,” Yev said, reaching out to press his hand against Mickey’s jaw, where Lip had hit him. It must have still been red. Mickey fucking bruised like a damn peach. “Mama says we don’t use our hands.”

Mickey nodded, “Your mama’s right, buddy. I fucked up, I’m sorry. Did I scare you?”

“You were loud,” Yev said, reaching his hands in the air, curling his fingers like claws, “Loud like a big bear, Papa.”

One minute, Mickey was fighting back a laugh, the next, he was pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Fucking fantastic. First he was fighting in front of his kid, now he was starting to fucking cry. 

Everything was just so fucked up already, on top of this. He wasn't supposed to be that guy who threw punches in front of his kid. He had taken so long to be a halfway decent father to Yev. Hung back while Ian picked up his fucking slack and for what? To turn around and pull this shit?

“Fuck, I’m sorry buddy. You shouldn't have to see that shit.”

Little fingers wrapped around his, taking his hands away from his face, “It’s okay, Papa. I won’t tell Mama. Milk-uh-viches don’t rat, ‘member?”

Mickey laughed loud, kind of hysterically, to be honest. He shook his head, rubbing at his eyes, “You’ve been hanging out with Uncle Iggy too much,” he sighed. “You okay, though?”

Yev nodded, his hair bobbing along with his head.

“We can go home, if you want.”

Yev chewed on his lip, looked  into the kitchen and then back at Mickey, “Aunty Ona made yummy chicken and ‘tatoes.”

“Oh,” Mickey grinned, nodding in understanding, “My bad. I forgot. You hungry?”

Yev patted his stomach and nodded.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone is playing the 'my dick is bigger than yours' game.


	11. Boiling Point II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re just gonna really love the water pressure here,” Ian continued.
> 
> “That good, huh?” Mickey panted, feeling Ian’s hand rub at the front of his pants, pressing snugly against his erection.
> 
> “So hard,” Ian sucked and bit at Mickey’s skin. Mickey had no idea what Ian was talking about at that point, him or the water pressure. “Go hop in and I’ll be there in a minute.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the previous chapter.

Lip didn't stick around for dinner. Thank the fuck god, Mickey didn't know if he could stand to be around him much longer before putting his face through a window. 

With everything that had happened before, dinner had obviously been a little tense at first. Then Debbie, ever the awkward silence breaker, started talking about how the guy she went out with last night had been too handsy, so she left him right in the middle of dinner _(“I swear to god, I thought I was gonna have to shiv his ass in the middle of the restaurant”)._ After that, things lightened up.

Mickey had a hard time keeping up with the light conversation though. He just felt agitated, like he wanted to crawl out of his skin or something, thinking about things he didn't want to think about. Today had been a fucking wreck. First the cops, then Carl, then fighting with Lip in front of his son. Mickey was exhausted and had a hard time keeping his hands steady. Even when Ian reached over under the table to rest his hand on Mickey’s thigh, it wasn't doing much to settle him.

The one thing he could focus on though, was figuring out something for Carl. _That_ he could deal with. _That_ he could make a plan for. But before he put anything in motion, he knew that —as a courtesy— he kind of had to talk to Fiona about it.

He approached her after dinner, when she was washing dishes with Angela and everyone else was in the living room, watching a movie.

Mickey almost didn't want to interrupt them. Fiona and Angela stood side-by-side at the sink, their shoulders brushing against each other. They weren’t like Svetlana and Nika. They giggled and caught each other staring —they played. Svetlana and Nika were so fucking serious all the time. If they _were_ like Angela and Fiona ever, it never happened around him.

“Ay, uh… Fiona, can I talk to you for a minute?” Mickey finally spoke up. “Actually, both of you.”

Fiona and Angela both turned to look back at him. “Everything okay?” Fiona asked.

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded, moving to stand next to her. He leaned against the counter, drying a bowl that she handed to him. 

There was this weird thing that happened to Mickey around Fiona… in the back of his mind, he always felt like this little kid around her. She’d ask him for help with something, he’d help her. Fold laundry? Fine. Help with dishes? Fine. Or he'd offer his help, wanting to lend a hand.

She wasn’t that much older than he was, but she was all _mother_. And so the fuck what, Mickey had “mommy issues” or whatever, _who doesn't, go fuck yourself_. Fiona needed help and he’d already fucked up family dinner night by fighting with Lip, so the least he could fucking do was dry a couple dishes. Shit.

“About Lip,” Mickey started, reaching for another bowl.

“You both said some shitty things,” Fiona shrugged. “Coulda done without the fighting in the middle of the living room, but we’ve seen worse in this house, so don’t worry about it. My Grammy used to say something about lions or wolves. Someone’s gotta bleed to see who’s alpa or whatever.”

“Your grandma said that?” Angela laughed.

“Yeah,” Fiona grinned, catching her bottom lip between her teeth.

Mickey rolled his eyes. It wasn't about who was alpha or whatever, it was about Lip being an obnoxious fucking tool, “Anyways, I wanted to talk to you about the kid.”

“Gonna have to be more specific than that, Mickey,” Fiona huffed a laugh.

“Carl,” Mickey sighed, drying a plate. 

Fiona took a deep breath, taking a break from washing dishes. She rested her hands on the edge of the sink, “Mickey, I didn't like the idea of him coming to help you —I’m gonna be honest, I still don’t. But I would rather him be where I know he is, with someone who is gonna look out for him, than him being on some corner or in the Kash and Grab dealing, where he can get in serious trouble. I know you said you were done with him, but—”

“Ay, I ain’t done with him,” Mickey interrupted. “I had a shit day and he got caught up in that. He’s a good kid, he just needs something to do.”

“A couple of dirty cops put him through the ringer today,” Angela told Fiona. “It was kind of intense.”

Fiona’s eyes went wide as she turned to face Mickey, resting her hip against the counter, “Shit. You okay?”

“He did good,” Angela said, resting her chin on Fiona’s shoulder. She gave Mickey a slow grin, “Pretty much kept his cool the whole time.”

Mickey waved a dismissive hand, “I’m a big boy, I can take some shit-talking. I wanted to run something by you though, both of you, before I talked to the kid about it. Since you know, he wants to get you guys the fuck outta South Side.”

Fiona dipped her chin a little and sighed, “He’s just a kid, Mickey. Lip was right, it’s not his responsibility.”

“Yeah? What were you fucking doing at sixteen?” Mickey asked. “You raised the kid, that’s all he knows. He’s gonna take care of his own, he’s just gonna end up getting locked up again at this rate. And that ain't gonna help anybody.”

“He should be worrying about school, trying to make something of himself,” Fiona said. 

Mickey rubbed at his bottom lip, “Listen… he’s a smart kid. But let's be real fucking honest right now, you and I both know, that kid ain’t going to college.”

Fiona frowned, “You don’t know that.”

“Really?” Mickey sniffed, “Okay, say he does go to college. He’s _completely_ off the fucking leash. Then what happens?”

Fiona stayed quiet for a minute. She sighed, folding her arms under her chest, keeping her voice low, "He got in another fight on Monday, broke a kids nose and dislocated his shoulder... got a week's suspension. Next time, he's gonna get expelled. I just barely got him the suspension this time."

"What was the fight over?" Mickey asked.

"I dunno, he won't talk about it," Fiona sighed.

Mickey lifted his shoulders, "And you think it's gonna get any fucking better at college?"

She didn't have an answer for him. Because everyone knew it was only going to get worse. Carl off the leash could go very bad, very fast. The kid already had too much slack as it was. Letting go was asking for him to just run wild and cause more mayhem than anyone knew what to do with. 

“I wanna train him, properly,” Mickey shrugged. “You know, doing what me and Angela do. If that’s okays with you.”

“He is _sixteen_ years old, Mickey.” Fiona’s jaw dropped. 

Angela stood up straight, giving Mickey a slight head-tilt, as if she were trying to figure out his train of thought. “Mickey, we don’t employ underage—”

“Wouldn't be anything official right now. And it would be the _same_ fucking thing he’s doing now. Following me around, helping me out. I’d still be throwing him some money under the table,” Mickey said, “Then when he’s eighteen, _if_ he's ready, we could have another set of eyes on the girls. Maybe find him a couple girls to, you know… manage.”

“I…” Fiona ran her hands through her hair, “I dunno, Mickey.”

“It’s all legit,” Mickey said, “It’s a legit business. It’s not pimping in South Side, it’s Lincoln Park. Bunch of old, doughy rich dudes. And it’s not like I’d be throwing him to the fucking wolves. He’s got what it takes to be really fucking good at this -and he _always_ takes care of his own. _That's_ his skill, might as well bank with it.”

“This is insane. I don’t even know where to begin with this,” Fiona shook her head. She turned to look at Angela, “What do you think?”

Angela looked genuinely surprised that she was being asked her opinion on Carl, “Oh. Uhm. Well… I mean, I _do_ trust Mickey's judgement. And it _is_ a legit business... and it’s not like we can’t afford to bring him on as an extra set of hands, later down the road,” she shrugged. “It's not my call on this end though. I don’t really know Carl as well as you guys, but he's always been a really great to have around.”

Mickey sighed, “Listen… Carl ain’t ever gonna sit behind a desk or work a regular nine-to-five. He’s not built that way up here,” he pointed to his head. “I know you know that. No one wants to see that kid get locked up again, or have him do some serous fucking damage that can’t be undone. His fighting's gonna get worse, gonna seriously fuck someone up if you don't find a way to, you know... diffuse it, or some shit.”

“I know,” Fiona wiped at her eyes, “And I know I’m not his mom, and it’s his choice, but—”

“Ay,” Mickey frowned and shook his head, “ _You’re_ his mom, not that fucking bitch that left,” he said. “So if you don’t want him working with me, I won’t bring it up to him, and this conversation never fucking happened. I can try to get him a job somewhere else. See how that works out for him.”

Fiona sighed, “He can’t deal with a regular job, you said it yourself. I just don’t want him turning out like… you know—”

“Like me,” Mickey finished for her, nodding his head. He didn't want that either.

“No,” Fiona shook her head, “I didn’t say that. There are worse people he could turn out like. Like you know… Frank, for one.”

Mickey felt the back of his neck heat up. He wet his lips and sighed, “He’s a good kid. He ain’t gonna turn out like Frank. Frank’s a selfish bastard.”

“Who’s Frank?” Angela asked.

“My dad,” Fiona said, “He’s a mess.”

Mickey snorted a laugh, “That’s putting it fucking lightly.”

Fiona rubbed her hands over her face, sighing heavily, “Carl’s gonna do what he want’s to do, no matter what I have to say about it. So there's really no point in trying to stop it, I guess. I mean, it was pretty inevitable that this would happen, right? Just please tell me that you’ll look out for him. Don't let him, you know, go overboard.”

“Not gonna let that happen," Mickey promised.

After all this was done, Mickey was going to go home, take a long ass shower and sleep through the entire fucking weekend. He wouldn't be surprised if he started sprouting some gray hairs.

 

* * *

 

Mickey and Ian dropped Yev off at Svetlana and Nika’s new place, just a five minute walk from their apartment building. Mandy had texted Ian a while ago, saying that she was going to turn in early for the night, after the exhausting day they had with the furniture and dealing with all the other bullshit that came with moving to a new place.

So, it was dead quiet when they got home. _Home_. _Their home._ Stepping into the new apartment was bizarre. With Ian behind him, hands on Mickey’s hips, lips brushing at the back of his neck, he walked slowly inside. This was his and Ian’s. Just theirs.

Mickey ran his hand over the brick wall by the front door and looked into the kitchen on his left, at the wood cabinets and dark countertop and stainless steel appliances. Fucking stainless steel. Then the hallway opened up into this dining room and living room area, and Mickey still couldn't piece the words together. It felt like there was a bubble in his chest.

Ian’s hands slid up and down Mickey’s sides, pushing him gently forward to keep moving further into the apartment.

Angela had told Ian and Mickey about this furniture store that had nice second-hand pieces. Evidently, that was the thing now, buying old shit that people have already used. Mickey never really got into furniture very much, they were just things to sit on, or put something on, or sleep on. But he liked the dining room table that Ian and Mandy found. And he liked the dark brown leather couches. And he liked the coffee table. They were his and Ian’s.

“We just got the basics,” Ian said softly, barely disturbing Mickey’s quiet. 

Mickey nodded, letting himself be directed toward the master bedroom —his and Ian’s room. Everything was so quiet. There was no yelling outside, no cars blasting music or drivers laying on their horns. It was like this quiet, cozy bubble.

Ian closed their bedroom door behind them. Their bed was simple and nice with new sheets and blankets. Mickey liked the bed, and the nightstands, and the dresser, and the brick wall behind the bed. His eyes darted all around their new room, taking every square inch in, memorizing the layout —there was an attached bathroom. Just for them. Just theirs.

Ian’s lips brushed against the side of his neck again, then again with a little more pressure. It felt good; Mickey leaned into Ian, reaching with one hand to sink his fingers into Ian’s hair.

“Do you like it?” Ian breathed against Mickey’s neck.

“Yeah,” Mickey breathed back.

Ian kissed at his skin again, this time tonguing him lightly as he did so, “Are you overwhelmed?”

Mickey closed his eyes, rubbing his fingertips into Ian’s scalp, “A little.”

Ian moved and turned them, pressing Mickey against the bare wall next to the door. He held his hips, and kissed Mickey, giving his mouth a slow, hot fuck with his tongue. Mickey grabbed at the back of Ian’s neck with one hand, his other resting on Ian’s hip. 

Through the quiet, Mickey only heard their heavy breathing and soft, wet kissing sounds. He loved kissing Ian —the redhead tasted so good and felt better than anything in the entire world, all pressed up against him, breathing and moving.

“You wanna take a shower with me?” Ian said into Mickey’s mouth.

Mickey grinned, “You telling me I stink?”

“Not at all,” Ian breathed a laugh, dipping his head down to kiss and tongue at Mickey’s throat, “You know I love how you smell.”

Mickey couldn't stop the soft whine in the back of his throat, his eyes slipping closed. Ian knew just where to go, knew where to put his hands and drag his tongue. Fuck, he couldn't remember when he was _this_ fucking keyed up.

“You’re just gonna really love the water pressure here,” Ian continued.

“That good, huh?” Mickey panted, feeling Ian’s hand rub at the front of his pants, pressing snugly against his erection.

“So hard,” Ian sucked and bit at Mickey’s skin. Mickey had no idea what Ian was talking about at that point, him or the water pressure. “Go hop in and I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Wait,” Mickey gasped, pulling Ian down for another kiss. 

With his free hand, Mickey managed to undo Ian’s belt, moving his hips into Ian’s hand, needing more friction, needing Ian. Their tongues slid against each other, teeth biting at each other’s lips. 

Ian slowly broke the kiss before Mickey had the chance to slip his hand into the redhead’s jeans; he pressed their foreheads together, “Shower.”

“Just a little longer,” Mickey sighed, kind of hating that he was being needy, but after today, he thought he kind of could get away with it.

“Yeah?” Ian grunted, shoving Mickey’s legs apart with his knee. He slipped his hand down the back of Mickey’s pants and boxers, grabbing a handful of his ass, pulling their bodies tightly together, “Like this?” 

Mickey dragged his hands up the back of Ian’s shirt, holding onto his shoulders, hips rocking between Ian’s hand and hip, finding that friction he was craving, “Yeah, like that.”

He barely got the words out before Ian swallowed them up, filling Mickey’s mouth with his hot breath and slick tongue. Mickey’s skin tingled, feeling that bubble in his chest turn white hot, rocking against Ian, all but fucking the redhead’s hip. 

Ian grabbed Mickey’s ass, pressing him harder into the wall. Mickey fucking loved with Ian grabbed his ass like that, just his whole hand spread out and gripping onto him, then releasing to rub up and down the cheek. Drove him crazy. He loved that Ian loved his ass.

“Want you,” Ian shuddered, his free hand coming up to wrap around Mickey’s throat, “Feel so fucking good, Mick. So good.”

“Yeah?” Mickey panted, unable to help the little grin that came over him.

“Fuck yeah,” Ian rocked into him, giving Mickey that same little grin. He pressed his mouth against Mickey’s again, his fingers tightening just barely around his throat, before taking a step back, “Shower.”

“Awh, fuck you,” Mickey groaned out a frustrated laugh at the loss of contact.

“Later,” Ian winked.

The shower, as promised, had been fucking amazing. The hot water beat down on his back like a goddamn firehose. Mickey stayed under the spray while he waited for Ian to join him, his muscles relaxing under the heat. He rolled his head from side to side and sighed, finding that calm that was buried under the agitation and anger from the day.

He thought he was going to lose it at dinner, he really did. He'd been shaking and sighing out tension to the point where he'd contemplated going outside to breathe, away from everyone. But he hadn't, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that he was _not_ okay. 

At least he could collect himself alone in the shower, if only for a few minutes. He was still all keyed up from Ian, but that pressure in his chest, that nails-down-chalkboard cringing feeling had still been buried just under the surface. In the back of his mind, ever since the meeting with the cops, Mickey had been thinking of the one thing he didn't want to even acknowledge. He stuffed it down every time, but it was still there. It pulsed and flickered, trying to break through, until Mickey covered it back up.

Mickey took a few deep breaths, letting them out slow and hard until he centered himself back to calm, pushing down all the bullshit, back where it belonged. With all of it back in place, Mickey could stretch this out a little longer, be focused and okay a little longer.

Mickey only knew that Ian had joined him when he felt a familiar, strong hand slide up the length of his spine then bury into his wet hair. He groaned from the touch, shivering when Ian started rubbing his fingers into the back of his neck and into his scalp.

They fooled around in the shower, washing each other and touching each other everywhere. Mickey ended up on his knees on the hard tiled floor, a hand fisted back into his hair, Ian whining low above him as Mickey worked him with his mouth, touching everywhere he could. He loved touching Ian, having Ian settled deep in his mouth, using him up like that. He tasted so fucking good and the way his hips rocked drove Mickey crazy.

Ian almost slipped and landed on his ass when they got out of the shower, of course making Mickey laugh until he could barely breathe. The guy was all limbs, flailing and soaked and naked, he looked ridiculous. Mickey earned a pinch on the arm and a hand-shaped welt on his ass for that, but it was well worth it.

They were wild and playful in bed, laughing loudly and pinning each other down, grabbing and teasing and mouthing at each other. 

“God, I fucking love you,” Mickey grinned, looking up at Ian, touching his face, laughing when Ian bit and sucked at his thumb when it got close to his lips. 

“I fucking love you too,” Ian said against Mickey’s mouth.

When Ian fucked Mickey, he settled on top of him, kissing him deep and in time with his pace, hooking one of his arms under Mickey’s knees. He pressed his forehead against Mickey’s, forcing him to look in his eyes as he dropped his filthy words into his mouth. And Mickey ate the words he was given, sucking them down like they were his fucking life source before he gave the words back to him.

“Come on,” Mickey grunted, bringing his brows together. He clawed at Ian’s back, rocking his hips up to meet Ian’s thrusts.

Ian quirked a brow at him, snapping his hips. A slow, open-mouth smile spread over his face, “What?”

Mickey had an itch. And while Ian was giving it to him good, he was holding back. So Mickey, dragging his teeth along Ian’s shoulder and reaching down to grab onto the redhead’s ass said, “We gonna break in this bed or not?”

“You wanna break in the bed, huh?” Ian slowed down, shifted a little while holding deep inside Mickey, until he got what he was looking for: Mickey's eyes rolled back and he gnawed at his lip. With a cheeky grin, the redhead added, “What's wrong, you were _so_ talkative just a minute ago.”

Ian, knowing Mickey’s body jut as well as he knew his own, was pressed heavily against Mickey’s prostate, making it nearly impossible to breathe or think, much less respond. Mickey's whole body felt like it was on fire, and floating, and being shocked back to life, all at once. He breathed out slow and broken, just barely rocking himself under the redhead. Much longer like this and he was going to be fucking _done_.

“What’s wrong, Mick?” Ian asked, a smile in his voice, rocking his hips just barely, knowing exactly how he was pressed all tightly and directly on top of Mickey’s sweet spot, “How much longer can you last like this? You know, I bet I could get you to come just like this, you are _so_ fucking sensitive right now.”

Mickey couldn't talk anymore, clenching his eyes shut as tight as he could. He couldn't stop it, he fucking whined, “Fuck.”

“What do you want, Mick?” Ian breathed, rocking his hips again. 

Mickey saw stars, “Please, please, please,” he chanted. “I don’t wanna fucking come like this.”

“How do you wanna come?”

“Fuck you,” Mickey ground out, digging his fingers into Ian’s skin. Ian was fucking with him at the worst possible time, but it still drove him crazy.

“I’ll give you what you want, under one condition,” Ian panted, rocking his hips.

Mickey nodded, “Okay, whatever, what?”

“You keep running that hot fucking mouth of yours,” Ian bent down, devouring Mickey’s lips with his own, snapping his hips roughly against Mickey’s ass. "And I want you to come untouched. Will you do that for me?"

Fuck, he was close, “That's... oh fuck... that's two, but okay, what-whatever,” Mickey moaned.

And he did. He gave Ian exactly what he wanted while the redhead pinned Mickey's hands to the bed, pushing into him hard and fast, finally scratching Mickey’s itch. The headboard hit the brick wall as Ian then reached down with both hands, hitching Mickey’s knees up, all but folding him in fucking half. Mickey grunted and whined under him, his words turning into nonsense cursing and heavy pleas.

It wasn't much later after that, that Mickey came untouched with Ian’s hand wrapped around his throat, probably tight enough to leave a bruise, tight enough to hurl him over the edge.  He was so fucking sensitive and used up by the time that Ian came too, that Mickey was a whining, overstimulated mess. It was fucking amazing, leaving them piled together on top of the bed, sweating and gasping for breath, completely blissed out. 

"Fuck," Ian breathed heavily against Mickey's ear, one of his hands holding the side of his face, "You did so good, Mick. So fucking good. Knew you could do it." 

Ian did that, praised Mickey like that when he came untouched, knowing how intense it could get for him. Mickey, years ago, used to roll his eyes and tell Ian to knock it off because he was embarrassed that he liked it. Now it just made Mickey want to kiss Ian and tell him that he loved him, so he did.

Ian cleaned them up and they laid together for a while, running their hands over each other, squeezing each others muscles and kissing, just basking in each other. Between the two of them, they’d be covered in bruises in the morning. 

“I’m so glad that Mandy’s room is on the other side of the apartment,” Ian whispered in the quiet.

“Me too,” Mickey whispered back. Whispering just seemed right.

They snorted breathy laughs and inched closer to one another. Mickey just stared at Ian’s face, in his eyes, running his fingers over the redhead’s side. Ian nudged his knee in between Mickey’s wrapping a long arm around his waist.

“Thank you,” Ian whispered.

“For what?”

“For everything.”

“You’re my best friend,” Mickey breathed, as if it answered everything. “Ride or die, right?”

Ian chuckled, “Ride or die.”

 

* * *

 

Waking up in the new apartment was even better than falling asleep in the new apartment. Mickey woke up to the smell of bacon and coffee, and for once didn't feel like bitching about how early it was. 

Ian was still asleep, curled up in the blankets, mouth parted a little, his soft breathing cutting through the silence of the room. Mickey bent over, brushed his lips over Ian’s cheek, then pulled on a pair of sweatpants, taking his packet of cigarettes with him on his way out of the bedroom. His jaw was still a little sore from Lip hitting him. Ached a little when he lit up on the way to the kitchen.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Mandy’s voice hissed when she saw him.

“What?”

His sister shook her head, meeting him in the living room. She snatched the cigarette out of his mouth and padded back to the kitchen to put it out, “Jesus Christ Mickey, you are _not_ smoking in your new apartment, what is wrong with you? This shit is nice, act like it. Smoke on the patio.”

Mickey pulled a face, “Fuck. Sorry mom.”

Mandy rolled her eyes, “Is Ian up yet? I made breakfast. Svetlana told me how to make those eggs he likes.”

“Not yet, should be up soon. You know you're not his girlfriend anymore right -you don't have to cook him breakfast.”

“First of all, asshole, you two could be married with five kids, and I'd _still_ be his girlfriend. Second of all, shut the fuck up,” Mandy snorted.

Mickey rolled his eyes, raising his middle finger.

“Did you get hit or something? You got a bruise, right there.”

Mickey sighed, hopping up on one of the barstools at the counter, “Yeah. Got in it with Lip last night.”

Mandy paused for a brief moment, spooning the baked eggs onto a plate, “You hit him back?”

“Of course I did,” Mickey scoffed.

Mandy’s brows quirked upwards as she shrugged, “Good.”

Mickey sighed after a few minutes of silence, fiddling with his lighter. "Ay, Mands..."

He didn't want to talk about his bullshit, he didn't want this to blow up in his face -didn't want anyone to be crawling up his ass, asking if he was okay. But there was only one person in his life, at that very moment, that knew about the slip-ups, that knew he was going to crack soon.

"Yeah?" she asked, putting a plate in front of him.

"Remember when you told me to uh... to tell someone when I'm not okay?"

His sister stayed quiet for a moment. She came around the counter, hopping up on the stool next to him, rubbing her hand up and down his arm, "Getting bad?"

Mickey nodded, taking a deep breath, "Ian doesn't know about this shit."

"He's probably waiting for you to tell him, Mickey. You know that he sees you stressed out. You should just tell him you have-"

"No," Mickey shook his head, "He's got enough to deal with."

His sister scowled at him, dropping her hand from his arm, "Don't insult him like that, thinking he can't deal with his shit _and_ you're shit. You're supposed to take care of each other. Besides, it's probably worse that he sees it, but you're not saying anything about it."

"I'm not..." he sighed. He wasn't ready to talk to Ian about it. He wasn't ready to talk about a lot of shit. "Listen, I just, I dunno, I wanted you to know that I feel it coming and I kinda need someone to pull me out when it happens."

"You need to fucking talk to Ian about this," Mandy said quietly. "It's not fair. Maybe you just need to let it happen the next time you feel it creeping up, you know, just feel it and get it over with so you can fucking breathe. Shit, I dunno, go talk to a shrink, you have money now. Maybe that'll help."

Uh, no. Mickey shook his head, taking a bite of bacon, "Fuck that. I'm gonna ride this shit out as long as I can."

"Yeah, great plan, doucebag. That's _definitely_ not gonna end up bad," Mandy huffed a heavy sigh and slid off the barstool, "Mickey _fucking_ Milkovich, everybody."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MICKEY MILKOVICH you do not smoke in your new fancy Lincoln Park apartment what is WRONG with you. Jesus. Also, I'm really enjoying writing these Mandy & Mickey interactions.
> 
>  **On the next update:** I'm not 100% sure when that'll happen. Hopefully no more than a week. Having some creative issues right now. So. You know.
> 
> Also, I think that sex scene was borderline rated E? I dunno. Maybe not. I tried to edit it down.


	12. Downward Spiral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His hands shook as he held onto the toilet. His whole body shook, but not from this. His body shook because he was very quickly realizing that Mandy was right. His mind raced with layers of thoughts, layers of memories that he wanted to go away. They’d never go away. He knew that. He knew Mandy was right, but admitting that his sister was right was the last fucking thing that he wanted to do. 
> 
> He could handle this. He’d been handling it for a few years now, just kept shoving it away and pushing it down where it belonged. He wasn’t fucking weak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **PSA: long notes; 10K WORD CHAPTER. Was going to split it up, but nope.**
> 
> This is gonna get kinda dark and heavy, but’s its kind of needed, so we can move past this. I really want to move past this dark place that this story turned into.  
> So that being said, I need everyone to remember what kind of family Mickey has come from and who raised him. It may have been pretty obvious from before, but this Mickey is not the fluffy bubblebutt thug we all love. Things are going to get a little gritty.
> 
>  **CONTENT WARNING:** Throwing Up (once); Panic Attack/PTSD; Repressed Memories/Confessions; Mentioning/Thinking/Talking about 3x06 (nothing graphic, no details, just talking about it  & Mickey's feelings towards that day etc) —just be prepared for Mickey’s confessional time. The first 3 paragraphs should give you insight/hints into some of the things you’ll be up against in this.

_Baby, there are things in this world that you stuff down, deep down where no one can see them. They hurt you and they burn you up with no remorse —and you let them hurt you because that’s what you think you deserve, isn’t it?_

_Because there are things your hands have done, your mouth has said, tragedy you’ve seen, that are the hooks attached to chains that lead to hell. Some things you cannot undo, baby. And I know you think you’re unclean, still covered with that layer of filth and shame. But, it’s okay, baby. It’s okay. Open your mouth and let it go, or else those chains will pull you down to hell sooner than you expect them to._

_You’re so beautiful, baby; you’re priceless and more than what you’ve done, more than what you’ve said or seen. You’re worth something, baby. You’re worth the world, the stars, the sun, the sky. Wash your skin, baby. Unhook the chains, my love. Breathe._

 

* * *

 

** [Monday] **

 

Mickey leaned back in his desk chair, watching Carl collect money from his twin girls, Polina and Irina. Carl liked the twins and they always batted their lashes back at the kid and smiled, working him like the pros they were. 

“Do you think they’d like… you know… if I paid enough?” Carl asked Mickey when they left.

Mickey frowned at the kid, “First of all, you’re underage —so, no. Second of all, you couldn't afford them for that shit, even if you were old enough. Anyways, you keep your hands out of the fucking cookie jar. Don’t smoke the product, remember?”

“Yeah but that’s drugs,” Carl said, “This is pussy.”

“Christ kid, give me the money,” Mickey rolled his eyes, reaching out for the wad of cash. “I thought you were banging some chick from school or something, anyways? What you need a pro for?”

Carl shrugged, slouching down in the chair in front of Mickey’s desk, “Not like there’s such thing as too much pussy, right?”

Mickey pulled a face. What the hell? The kid was doing some serious over-compensating and it sounded like someone else was talking instead of Carl, “I guess, man.”

There was a long pause —it was kind of awkward. Carl was just staring at the floor, Mickey was staring at Carl, trying to figure out how long the kid was going to stretch this out. He could practically hear the gears turning in the kid’s head. And Mickey wasn’t a fucking psychic, but you didn't have to be, to know that things were going to get even more awkward, fast.

“Can I ask you something?”

Oh god, there it was. Mickey sighed, “Sure.”

“You ever do something that you didn't think you’d ever do?”

That was a loaded question; Mickey felt stress starting to curl over him, sinking it’s nails into the back of his neck. He didn't really have time or patience for this dance, vague questions leading to where he already knew, “You fuck another dude?”

Carl’s whole face went about as red as Ian’s hair. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

“Your family _obviously_ doesn't give a shit. You’re lucky… so, if you fucked another dude, no one’s gonna care.”

“I didn’t… I mean… I like girls.”

Mickey shrugged, “Okay.”

Carl shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his hand reaching up to rub at his mouth. Mickey stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “I just…” he sighed.

“Maybe you should talk to Ian about whatever happened,” Mickey suggested.

Carl stayed quiet for a few seconds again, then rushed out, “This kid kissed me and I kissed him back and I’m just really fucking confused because I liked it. But I like girls.”

Mickey groaned, really _not_ wanting to have this conversation at all, “Dude, you can like both. It’s okay.”

“But… Frank said you gotta pick a gender.”

“Holy shit, you’re really gonna listen to Frank? You don’t have to pick shit,” Mickey huffed a laugh; this whole conversation was a mess. “You should know that… it’s fucking twenty-fifteen and you’re a goddamn teenager, where the fuck have you been?”

Carl nodded, “So what do I do?”

“What do you do?” Mickey repeated. “Uh… well, you’re still in South Side, so what you do is keep that shit low key. Otherwise you’re gonna run into some _real_ fucking problems. And _please_ , for the love of god, don’t start fucking older dudes.”

“You mean like that old dude that Ian was with?”

Mickey clenched his jaw, “Yes. Exactly.”

A small cough from the doorway interrupted them, thank god.

Sonya, with the freckles, came into his office, laying her money on Mickey’s desk. There was something off about her. She was always quiet, but it wasn’t even that. It was her face. Mickey worked it out in only a couple seconds, no stranger to a cover-up job, no matter how good it was. Before she could turn away, Mickey reached out and grabbed her wrist, stilling her.

She looked back at him, her eyebrows perched high over her light eyes, “Yes?”

“What the fuck happened to you?” Mickey asked.

Sonya ran a hand through her brown hair and sighed, “Not a client, don’t worry about it,” she said, her voice a little hoarse. Her accent was just as strong as Svetlana’s, if not stronger.

“Yeah, I didn’t ask that. I asked what happened to you,” Mickey said.

After a few seconds of silence, the girl just kind of crumpled in on herself, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth as her eyes glassed over. “I’m sorry Mickey, I know I cannot work like this.”

Ah fuck, she was crying. Mickey made his way around his desk and felt this slight panic rise in his chest. He reached out with both of his hands, awkwardly resting them on her shoulders for a few seconds, trying to placate her. “Ay, don’t worry about it. Just… who did this?”

But she shook her head, wiping gently at her eyes, “It is personal problem, not work.”

“Well, it’s a work problem now,” Mickey said. He hadn’t meant to sound irritated, but it came out kinda harsh, even making Carl wince.

But Sonya didn't even flinch. She nodded her head, “It will not happen again.”

The way her eyes flitted away from him reminded him too much of his mother. The pressure in his chest was back, kind of taking over. Over and over again he saw it, his mom sunk down in the corner, hands up, trying to defend herself as his dad stood over her, his hands raised in the air also, but for different reasons. Mickey had to take a deep breath and let it out, to force the memory away. He couldn't think about that now.

“I want you to uh…” Mickey’s eyes darted around his office as he tried to gather his thoughts, “I want you to go to Svet’s, have her look at you—”

“I am fine,” Sonya protested.

“—have her look at you,” Mickey said, shaking his head. End of conversation. Svetlana could get it out of the girl and let Mickey knew what was going on.

Sonya gave a single nod, clearly not happy with her instructions, but Mickey didn't give a shit. It didn't matter if it wasn’t work related, no one was supposed to touch his girls, end of story. How come that was so fucking hard to understand?

 

* * *

 

** [Tuesday] **

 

_There was a young woman; a little too skinny, a little too tired, a little too high. She wore dresses a little too big, smiled a little too big, spoke a little too loud. She had once been beautiful. She was beautiful now, would always stay beautiful, but she was once dazzling, used to make your breath catch in your throat._

_Then caught breath wasn’t because of her beauty, it as because of the angry hand lashing out at her face. It was because of the vodka in her veins. It was because every time she touched her ribs, a fire exploded through her body._

_But the young woman, too high, too tired, too skinny… she danced through bruised ribs, twirling with her children surrounding her. Too many children to count, too many mouths to feed, not enough hours in the day, but it didn't matter. None of that mattered._

_They laughed. They played. She drank. They played some more. Her too big dress, the thin scrap of cloth with the flowers and buttons, fluttered around her as she twisted and turned, her head tilting back, basking in the music that played a little too loud._

_Mickey watched her, watched the scene in front of him, the children dancing and playing around her. He wanted to smile, but he couldn't quite get his mouth to work._

_And then the woman saw him, finally saw him. Her eyes lit up, all glassed over and hazy from alcohol and pills, but under all of that, it was there. That love. That drive to love, despite everything else. Despite the hate that was rained onto her._

_She crossed the room, weaving around her children who were still dancing and laughing, her too thin arms spreading out in wonder. Then her hands unfolded on either side of Mickey’s face. Her touch was cold, but warm at the same time. Mickey couldn't move, staring straight into eyes that looked too much like his own._

_“Mykhail,” she whispered, her chapped lips slowly spreading in a smile._

_Mickey’s eyes stung. Her voice used to sound as if it were cut with diamonds and lined with silk. But now it was carved out with a razor blade and patched up with needle and thread. He opened his mouth reaching to cover her hands with his own. Her thumbs wiped under his eyes. He was crying?_

 

Mickey was covered in sweat when his eyes flew open. His stomach churned and his mouth filled with spit, telling him he’d better get to the toilet before he had a real issue on his hands. He ripped the covers off of himself and ran to the bathroom, dropping heavily to his knees and let his body expel what it needed to.

His hands shook as he held onto the toilet. His whole body shook, but not from this. His body shook because he was very quickly realizing that Mandy was right. His mind raced with layers of thoughts, layers of memories that he wanted to go away. They’d never go away. He knew that. He knew Mandy was right, but admitting that his sister was right was the last fucking thing that he wanted to do. 

He could handle this. He’d been handling it for a few years now, just kept shoving it away and pushing it down where it belonged. He wasn’t fucking weak.

A hand rested between his shoulders and rubbed in a circle. Mickey wasn’t throwing up anymore, just kind of hovering over the bowl, his shoulders flinching and lurching forward just barely.

“You okay?” Ian’s voice asked, all soft and patient.

Mickey nodded. Ian flushed the toilet and kissed the top of his head.

“Come on,” Ian said, tugging gently at Mickey’s arm, pulling him up to stand on shaky legs, leading him to the sink to wash up. 

While he brushed his teeth, Ian peeled his sweat-soaked shirt off of his body. Mickey looked at himself in the mirror and wanted to drive his face into it as hard as he could. But instead he took a deep breath, spit in the sink and rinsed his mouth out.

“I don’t ask you to talk about things you’re not comfortable with,” Ian wrapped his arms around Mickey’s waist, pressing his chest into his back, pressing his cheek against Mickey’s. “But I wish you would talk to me.” 

“I think I just ate something bad,” Mickey lied, hating himself. 

Now he was fucking lying to Ian and Ian could tell. But the redhead didn't call him out on it, just caught his eyesight in the mirror, keeping it for a few seconds before untangling himself with a sigh and turned on the shower.

 

* * *

 

** [Wednesday] **

 

Svetlana had gotten out of Sonya that her new boyfriend hit her, giving her a black eye. That day had been exhausting. Mickey already assumed the situation long before it was confirmed. It was all very cliche, so much so that Mickey had to keep from rolling his eyes. 

Guy falls for girl, _knowing_ she’s a sex-worker. Girl is the best lay he’s ever had. Guy starts realizing that he’s not the only one fucking his girlfriend. Guy gets jealous and _blah blah blah_ , guy ends up hitting the girl during a fight, because he’s a fucking child who can’t keep his hands to himself. Except this time, the girl’s pimp finds out and scares the shit out of the guy, ultimately ending the relationship. End of story. Move on.

It kinda made Mickey feel like a piece of shit. But seriously, if you can’t handle dating a fucking hooker, _then don’t date a fucking hooker_. When Ian was dancing, yeah it drove Mickey crazy, especially when old pervy fucks got a little too handsy. But did he beat on Ian because he got jealous? No. Did he try to get Ian to stop dancing because _he_ didn't like it? No. Did he get hot-ass private dances for acting like a mature fucking adult about the situation? Hell fucking yeah he did. Mickey got rewarded as _fuck_ for keeping his cool.

So in the end, Mickey had to have a chat with the guy. There had been a lot of yelling and throwing words around like whore and slut, and normally Mickey wouldn't really give a shit about that, even he dropped those here and there. But Sonya’s boyfriend had been a real fucking tool, so Mickey reacted badly.

And the guy… he wasn’t a doughy old rich dude. He was a doughy old rich’s dude’s _son_. He was Mickey’s age. He was a spoiled brat. He evidently frequented a gym at _least_ twice a week. If you asked Mickey, it was a pretty even fight. Mickey walked away with a busted lip, busted knuckles and bruised cheek. Sonya’s now-ex-boyfriend walked away with much the same. Luckily Carl had went with Mickey on the visit, so he broke up the fight. Carl got clipped in the jaw —Mickey wasn’t really sure by who.

This all happened last night; Mickey came home to Ian, who cleaned him up and very deliberately kept his mouth shut. That didn’t mean that he hadn’t made it more than obvious that he was _not_ happy about his boyfriend coming home battered up like that.

“Yo, douchebag!”

Mickey jumped a little, head swiveling over to look at his brothers. Colin held the joint out to him, his eyebrows raised expectantly. “Been yelling at you for ten fucking minutes, man.”

Mickey rolled his eyes; he took the joint and pulled on it before handing it over to Iggy. “Fuck off, no you haven’t.”

“The fucks going on with you?” Iggy asked. “You on something?”

“Nothing man, get off my dick,” Mickey grunted. 

He looked around the Milkovich living room. It hadn't really changed since he was little. He tried not to think of the dream that was more of a memory. What song had they been listening to? He couldn't place the song, couldn't even remember the melody or anything. It was an old song though, he knew that much for sure. A song from even before his mother’s time.

Mickey was visiting back home while he still could, just needing to get away from Lincoln Park and all that shit. Ian could still tell something was wrong, had even asked him about it, but Mickey had been less than forthcoming. 

Mandy was ready to kill him. She’d threatened to talk to Ian if he wouldn’t. Needless to say, the two of them got in a pretty serious argument over it, ending in Mickey storming out of his own fucking apartment and Mandy slamming her bedroom door. Thankfully, Ian hadn't been around for that.

“You’ve been acting fucking weird, man,” Colin said.

“You about to freak out?” 

Mickey gave Iggy a hard scowl, “No.”

Iggy twisted his brows up and huffed a laugh, shaking his head.

“Fuck, how long’s it been since that shit’s happened?” Colin pulled on the joint before passing it to Mickey, “Four years? Gonna pop like a fucking bottle, man.”

Mickey took one last pull on the joint before throwing it at Colin’s head, “You two need to shut the fuck up before I put your heads on fucking pikes.”

His brothers were saying more shit, but Mickey wasn't listening. He grabbed his beer bottle and car keys and left.

 

* * *

 

** [Thursday] **

 

“Where are you?” Ian’s voice came from the other end of the line. “It’s getting late, Yev’s asking about you, he needs to go to bed.”

Mickey sighed, cradling the phone against his ear. He stopped in his tracks and turned around, walking in the other direction, “I’m on my way.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Mickey said, voice kind of tight.

Ian didn't reply right away. Mickey listened to him sigh, heard the phone jostle a little, like he was switching ears or something. 

“I’m worried about you. You’re not sleeping, you’re not talking to anyone, you’re… fucking staring off, thinking about god knows what. I don’t know what to do, Mick. You gotta let me in —throw me a fucking bone here, a clue, _something_. Fuck. You’re freaking me out.”

Mickey ignored the ping in his chest, “Ay, I said I’m fine. I’m just taking a fucking walk, okay? Heading back now.”

“Okay,” Ian’s voice was soft this time, a little lost. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Mickey said.

 

* * *

 

** [Friday] **

 

Mickey leaned back in the chair, lighting up his third cigarette, looking out at the buildings across the street form his apartment’s patio. It was freezing out, he probably needed a jacket.

He looked down at his phone and frowned. Ian should have been home from his new gym by now. Maybe he was grabbing dinner or something. Mickey propped his feet up on the railing of the patio and pulled hard at his cigarette, watching the smoke drift away when he exhaled. He felt kind of numb, a little disassociated from himself.

He had that dream again the night before. His mother, dancing and laughing and spinning with all of them; high on Valium and buzzed from vodka. Mickey didn't understand until he was older that these were her own forms of medications for dealing with her life —for dealing with Terry. 

Fault her, if you must, many people did. Call her what you will, but she was not a _junkie_ mother, not like that. She loved her children more than she loved herself. She worked through the highs to care for and love her children. She was present and good to them, making sure they were clean and fed, no matter what it took. Sometimes it took everything she had.

The dream was the same as the last. Stopping in the middle of dancing, she’d look over and see Mickey, full-grown Mickey, standing there, like he belonged there. She rushed to him, she touched his face and smiled at him, called him by his full name. 

Mickey was named after a friend that his mother was very close to, back in Ukraine. She said that Mykhail had been the sweetest, strongest, bravest boy she had ever known. And she knew that Mickey would need that in this family, having the father he did. 

He was premature, a little small —the runt, if you will. That’s what Terry had called him until he was about ten. The Runt.

Fuck Terry Milkovich. 

Mickey pulled again on his cigarette and ran a hand over his hair. He had about six months before he’d have to start worrying about that motherfucker getting out of jail. Mickey kind of hoped that the dumb prick would shiv someone before then, maybe get more time on his sentence. The longer he was rotting in there, the better. Maybe if Mickey was lucky enough, he’d get gutted in the showers. That was best case scenario.

His phone rang, it was Mandy. He almost didn't pick it up, but he did anyways, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he did, “Ay.”

“Okay, I need you to take a deep breath first, and stay calm,” Mandy said, her voice obviously forced to keep steady. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Breathe first,” Mandy said.

He did, quickly and roughly inhaling and exhaling, stubbing his cigarette out on the patio railing, “What the fuck is going on?”

“Well, what’s happening is Ian was brought into the police station for questioning about a robbery in your apartment building.”

Mickey’s stomach dropped as he stood up from his chair, “Run that by me again.”

While Mickey went back inside and gathered all his shit he needed, Mandy kept talking. “We were picking up Chinese food, and these two cops just fucking came out of _nowhere_ , Mickey. They were kinda rough with him and just kept saying that he’s wanted for questioning. I’m at the station now. This is bullshit, he didn't do anything!”

“I know. I —I know… we’ll fix this, I’m on my way.”

“You need to stay calm, Mickey.”

“I’m fucking trying! Who brought him in?”

“I only got one of their names. Officer… Grant?”

Everything —including Mickey, who was halfway out of the front door— stopped. He stared at the wall in front of him, one hand on the door, the other on his phone. Everything was just quiet and still as he felt his whole body burn up, head to toe.

“Mickey?”

Whatever he was feeling, whatever he was thinking… all of it flew out of the window. Mickey didn't feel any pressure in his chest. He didn't feel anything but the heat pulsing through his body. But everything else… numb. Completely numb. It was the most terrifying sense of peace that he’d felt in weeks. Months, even.

“Yeah. I’m on my way.”

 

Mandy was waiting for him at the station. She grabbed onto Mickey’s sleeve when he walked through the doors. He kept walking, barely registering that she was talking to him, her angry words sounded kind of far away.

“They have him in an interrogation room. Mickey? What… are you okay?”

“I need to talk to Officer Grant,” Mickey walked up to the nearest cop he could find. “Now.”

The guy was probably barely older than Mickey, light hair holding too much product. He arched a brow at Mickey, resting his hands on the band of his belt, “What about?”

Mandy jumped in, “About him bringing in my friend for no fucking reason—”

“Mandy, stop,” Mickey sighed. A piece of his numbness was chipped away, “There’s been a mistake,” he told the cop. Even though it wasn’t a fucking mistake.

But he _had_ to play this cool. He _could not_ fuck this up.

“I’m sure,” the cop sighed, pointing behind Mickey and Mandy, “Have a seat, I’ll get him.”

Mickey and his sister took a seat on a wooden bench. Mandy was fuming beside him, cursing and sighing angrily. Mickey kept his eyes locked on the floor, doing quick math in his head, anything to take his mind away from his current situation. Sitting in a fucking police station, waiting to clear shit up so Ian could go home… he didn't like this dance. He’d done this dance and it was his least favorite fucking dance. This was over the line. 

And Ian sitting in an interrogation room? Ian going through that shit again, the back of a cop car, the manhandling, the accusations, the chaos. No. This was way over the fucking line. If this fucked with Ian and sent him into a fucking spiral, Mickey was probably going to end up doing life in prison from butchering a couple of dirty cops. The numbness was chipping away again, being replaced with this sick, white-hot anger.

The numbers weren’t helping. He’d went over earnings and percentages about three times when Grant strolled over, his thumbs hooked in his belt loops, grinning like he and Mickey were old friends. Mandy tensed beside him, her hands curling over the edge of the bench.

“Lemme ask you something,” Mickey said, keeping his voice steady, “Was there even a fucking robbery in my building?”

“You think I’d falsify—”

“I think you’d do a lot of things,” Mickey cut in, standing up. “I want him out of that room and back home. Now.”

Grant folded his arms under his chest, “He’s waiting to be questioned.”

“Is he under arrest?” Mandy asked.

“That depends if he did it,” Grant shrugged.

“Well, we all know he didn’t,” Mickey said. “So why don’t you go tell whoever is in charge that you made a fucking mistake, so we can get the fuck out of here.”

Grant pulled back his lip in a snarl, “You better watch your tone, boy. Your boyfriend has a mouth on him too though. Birds of a feather, I guess.”

Mickey rubbed at his mouth, his shoulders tensing up. Mandy wrapped her hand around his elbow and pulled him back a little.

“If you fucking touched him, I swear to god,” Mickey breathed.

“Threatening a police officer now?” Grant cocked his head to the side.

“Mickey,” Mandy said beside him, her grip tightening on him.

This was so beyond the realm of fucked up. The numbness was starting to chip away and unravel even faster now. Mickey wondered how long Grant would stay alive after being strapped to a tree and used his as target practice. His mind was going places he didn't want it to, but with this prick standing in front of him, it was hard to think of much else.

The three of them stood there for what seemed like hours. The air was thick and tense. Mickey didn’t take his eyes off of Grant, and Grant didn’t take his eyes off of Mickey. The funny thing was that Grant thought he had all the advantage —and that that moment, it seemed like he did. But Mickey still had that motherfucker on tape. And Carl had done some serious recon on him. Grant, for a dirty cop, had a lot to lose.

“What do you want?” Mickey asked, keeping quiet. “How much?”

“Five,” Grant replied easy with a shrug.

“Fucking prick,” Mandy murmured. Mickey barely heard.

Mickey wet his lips, “How about I give you eight and this shit never happens again. You stay the fuck away from him, he’s got nothing to do with how I make money. He’s clean.”

Grant considered it for a moment before nodding, “You got it with you?”

“Of course I do,” Mickey said. He knew how this shit would go down. He was expecting to pay a lot more than eight grand though. This guy was a stupid fuck, huh?

“White Charger in the parking lot across the street. Second level. It’s parked next to a garbage can. Put it under the garbage can and then your boyfriend walks away.”

Mickey’s lips twitched as he tried to keep his mouth passive. “I know you’ve looked him up too, so you know he’s Bipolar, and you know about all his other shit —shit we’ve been through, you know what I’m saying?”

Grant shrugged with a nod, keeping silent.

“Maybe you don’t know how that works, but lemme just tell you, that if something happens to him because of this, if he starts going through shit, if he gets real low or real high because of _you_ ,” Mickey said, feeling Mandy’s grip tighten on his arm again, warning him. “Man, we’re going to have major fucking problems, you and I. If something happens to him, I will come after you… hard.”

“There you are again, Milkovich… threatening a police officer.”

“Ain’t a threat. Why don’t you read my file again, I ain’t scared of pigs,” Mickey said before walking away, pulling his sister with him.

 

Mickey didn't remember Ian coming out of the police station. He didn't remember holding Ian so tightly that his arms ached. He didn't remember kissing Ian in front of the station, in front of Mandy, not caring. He didn't remember any of that. It all faded to grays and slow-motion details that didn't stick.

The next thing he _did_ remember though (even though it went by in a haze), was standing under the hot spray of the shower with Ian. He remembered apologizing about a couple dozen times. He remembered how Ian reassured him that he was okay, and he was telling the truth, Mickey could tell. 

He’d been so worried that being brought in would trigger something in Ian, would send him into a spiral, keep him in bed for days, throw him into a mania, but Ian was calm and understanding. Ian was amazing. Mickey remembered telling him how amazing he was, the words feeling weird in his mouth, but he couldn't help it.

He remembered Ian kissing him all over his face, and then pressing tightly against his back, under the warm blankets of their bed. He remembered not being able to breathe until Ian kissed the back of his neck and told him to, kept telling him to, kept breathing with him, against his back, until Mickey fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

** [Saturday] **

 

He had that dream again, except this time his mother had bruises along her arms and blood on her lips. He woke up feeling like his skin was crawling, and he woke up alone. Mickey dragged himself out of bed, went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, pushing his hair back out of his face, barely shrugged on a pair of sweatpants. His clothes felt too constricting, so he went without a shirt. The silence of his bedroom was somehow hurting his ears, or something he couldn't figure out what, but it made him uncomfortable.

Walking out of his bedroom, he was hit with the smell of bacon and coffee and soft music playing —some kind of oldies station. 

Ian and Mandy were making breakfast together, talking quietly. Mickey hopped up on one of the barstools and watched them for a bit until Mandy turned, finally realized he was there, and nearly jumped out of her skin. That got him to lift the corner of his mouth in a half-grin.

“Christ!” she gasped, glaring at Mickey before going back to cooking. “Fucking ninja asshole, what is _wrong_ with you?”

Ian came around to where Mickey was, wrapping his long arms around his shoulders from behind; he felt good pressed against his back like that, felt kinda safe, in a weird way. He rested his chin on Mickey’s shoulder, keeping his voice quiet, “You sleep okay?”

Mickey nodded, “Yeah, you?”

“Yeah,” Ian breathed, brushing his lips across Mickey’s cheek. “You doing anything today?”

Mickey shook his head, taking the cup of coffee that Mandy slid over to him, “All freed up.”

Ian groaned appreciatively behind him, pressing his lips to the crook of Mickey’s neck, “You wanna stay in all day with me?”

He didn't know if it was being around Ian or what Ian was getting at, but Mickey grinned, turning around on the barstool until he was facing the redhead. He had to lean back with his elbows on the counter because Ian caged his arms on either side of him, his hands grabbing onto the edge of the counter, wedging himself between Mickey’s legs.

“My sister is right there,” Mickey shook his head.

“She doesn't give a shit,” Ian grinned, leaning forward to press his mouth against Mickey’s. 

“Just keep everything above the waist,” Mandy’s voice called from behind Mickey. “I don’t need to see my brother in action, thank you.”

He breathed a laugh against Ian’s mouth. This was nice. He wrapped his arms around Ian’s neck, pressing his mouth more firmly against Ian’s mouth, letting himself be dragged off of the barstool. Ian was walking backwards, taking Mickey with him; Mickey followed without protest, not breaking the kiss for even a moment.

“Shit! Fuck!” Mandy’s voice hissed from the kitchen. 

“What happened?” Ian asked.

“Fucking cut myself, I’m fine.”

He knew it wasn't as quiet as it seemed, but everything went so fucking quiet. Mickey looked over, seeing Mandy holding her hand to her chest, frowning deeply. A couple drops of blood dripped onto the white shirt she was wearing. 

The song on the radio had changed. Mickey barely heard it, but he caught those familiar chords, that melody. _As I walk along, I wonder; Oh, what went wrong with our love; A love that was so strong…_

He tilted his head, watching her face, watching the way her hair shifted as she looked down at her hand, a couple more drops of blood falling to the white shirt before she ran her hand under water. He thought maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him, because she didn't look like his sister for a second, his kitchen didn't look like his new kitchen for a second, it looked like his old one.

“Mick?”

Mickey blinked, looking at Ian look at him. It went in slow motion, everything fading out around him, Ian becoming just a watery blur of pale and red, something snapping in his chest —the pressure, the bubble, the control. He tried to grab back onto his control, tried to breathe and calm down, but it was too late. It was all piling up, all the layers of worries, all the thoughts, memories that he’d stuffed down… they were bubbling up to the surface faster than he could push them back down.

He felt the floor crash into his knees. He felt hands on his shoulders, heard muffled, far away yelling, like at the end of a tunnel; felt hands on his face. _And as I still walk on; I think of the things we've done together; Oh, while our hearts were young…_

If it were a physical _thing_ to feel, Mickey could feel the dam breaking open. At the end of the tunnel, someone is calling for him. Mickey thinks it might be Mandy; he hears a clicking sound, like a snap; feels something touching him on either side of his face, but it doesn't feel completely _real_. He doesn't feel like he’s completely _there_.

“Hey, Mickey, I need you to focus on me,” her voice drew close now, no longer stuck at the other end of the tunnel. 

It all came crashing back, overwhelming him like a bucket of ice water. But he couldn't catch the control. It was too far out of reach. The one thing he didn't want to happen, was fucking happening right in front of Ian. His blood felt like it was boiling, his lungs like two limp balloons who refused to inflate.

“What’s happening?” He heard Ian’s panicked voice.

“Panic attack, I think; hasn’t had one in years,” Mandy said back. Mickey couldn't get his eyes to look anywhere but Mandy’s. “And I’m pretty sure he’s got PTSD or something. But it comes and goes.”

_No, no, no, no,_ Mickey wanted to scream, but his jaw was clamped down too tightly. His breath was almost violent, sucking air in and out through his nose. He felt a hand grab his own and it burned, it burned so bad, he yanked his hand out of the grip and hissed in pain.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” that was Mandy again, her eyes wide, “I forgot, I’m so sorry. Shit.”

“What’s wrong with his hand?” Ian’s voice asked. Mickey didn't know where Ian was, somewhere behind Mandy. Mickey didn't want Ian to see him like this. Fuck, this wasn't supposed to happen.

“I think it like… triggers something,” Mandy said. Mickey wished she would stop fucking talking about this to Ian. He didn't want Ian to fucking know this shit. “You know how he doesn't shake hands, I think it’s got something to do with that. He doesn't know what it is though —or he _does_ but he doesn't talk about it.”

He didn't know for a long time. Until he remembered why, probably thanks to remembering his mother —remembering her _properly_. 

His mother. It happened when he was six years old. Fuck, he didn't want to think about it. Mandy had his mother’s eyes though, and him not being able to force himself to look anywhere else, had him remembering shit he didn't want to. It happened when he was six.

“Mickey, you’re drifting,” Mandy’s voice crawled back to the end of the tunnel, “Stay with me. Mickey? Shit, help me get him to the couch…”

_Terry had come home from wherever he spent his time, came home in a bad fucking mood. Drunk, high, looking for someone to use as an outlet for his anger. Looking for Mickey’s mother. Terry had interrupted their playtime, the singing and dancing and laughing. He pushed Colin out of his way; he smacked Iggy in the back of the head, calling them little faggots for dancing._

_Then he crouched down in front of Mickey, because Mickey was the runt and Mickey needed to be strong, needed to be a good solider for his dad one day. Because Terry always said how he was smart, how he was going to be running shit, how he was going to make him a lot of money. Terry would always say that Mickey, despite being the soft little runt, reminded him of himself. A man with a plan —he said these things with ugly pride, like he could take credit for Mickey’s good qualities just because of genetics._

_So when Terry knelt down in front of him, so they were eye-to-eye, Mickey knew what was coming, knew this game; he hated this game._

_Terry extended his hand, “Nice to meet you, my name is Terry Milkovich, what’s yours?”_

_Mickey had looked up at his mother. She had glassy eyes, her hand covering her mouth, whispering to Terry to please stop._

_“Don’t look at her,” Terry growled, grabbing Mickey’s little face, forcing him to look at his father, “She ain’t talking to you. You look a man in the eye when he’s talking to you, boy. You know that.”_

_Slowly, Mickey nodded. He put his little hand in his father’s and took a deep breath, “My name is Mykhail. Nice to meet you.”_

_“What’s your name?” Terry asked, his eyebrows perching upwards._

_“My name is Mykhail Milkovich,” he corrected himself, “Nice to meet you.”_

_The game was: if you flinch, if you cry, if you let it show that you were in any kind of pain, you got the belt. This was how Milkovich men were made. This is how strong fighting fists were made —in the summer, the boys were taken out to the side of the house and forced to punch the brick until their knuckles bled._

_This was how Mickey and his brothers got fists like forged steel, always having brass knuckles on hand, but never really needing them. You got hit by a Milkovich, got got hit by a fucking train._

_It was like a bad movie, how Mickey’s childhood was played out. But that was Terry’s law. That was his reality. He was a Milkovich and_ this _was how they were raised._

_This is also how Terry broke Mickey’s fingers for the first time. He squeezed too hard. Little six year old Mickey didn't even flinch until it happened. And when it did happen, when he felt his bones give under the pressure, he wailed loudly and tried to pull away. He got the belt, then his mother was punished for making the boys soft._

_But Terry breaking Mickey’s fingers… that wasn’t what happened when he was six. It wasn't the thing that Mickey blocked out. It was just a bad memory that bubbled up when Mandy took his hand in her own._

“Mickey, you need to slow your breathing down,” Mandy’s voice filtered in. 

He was on the couch now, gently sitting on the edge, someone was behind him, he felt a warm body pressed to his back. Ian, it was Ian. Ian was safe, Ian was good. He was so good, he loved Ian. He loved Ian so fucking much.

“Mickey, breathe with Ian, okay?” Mandy’s voice again; he felt her hands on his shoulders, steadying him when he swayed. 

Ian’s strong arm wrapped around his middle, pulling him against a slowly rising and falling chest. He needed to breathe with Ian, he needed to slow it down, and grab back onto his control.

“In and out, slow, okay?” Finally Ian’s voice was back, behind him, against his ear, like a beacon. Mickey grabbed onto Ian’s voice as he kept telling him to breathe. Ian made it okay. Ian was safe, felt safe. 

As Mickey forced his mouth open, he felt one of Ian’s big hands smooth over the top of his head, smoothing his hair back. He breathed in, counting to three, then breathed out.

“Good,” Mandy’s said, coming back. She was sitting on the coffee table in front of him, her hands gently resting on his shoulders, nodding her head, “Good job, Mickey. Keep breathing, you’re doing good. You’re okay.”

Logically, he knew he was okay. He knew he was in his apartment, safe, wasn’t six years old standing in the hallway, watching something fucking traumatizing unfold in the kitchen. He knew. But having it said out loud, being reminded… it helped. 

He breathed again, following Ian’s chest, letting his eyes droop closed, feeling his shoulders start to fall to rest. In and out. One two three, one two three. He finally realized that Mandy had been counting all along and he was following her voice.

He didn't know how long he was there, coming down, breathing against Ian’s chest, listening to Mandy softly draw him back to calm. But he got there, eventually. He got there and was left with his heavy lump in his throat, this shame and embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” his voice sounded too dry and strained. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

Mickey felt lips brush against the back of his neck. Ian. Ian’s arm tightened around his middle, his head hooking over his shoulder, still breathing with him, “Nothing to be sorry for.”

“Do you want to take a shower or something?” Mandy asked him.

“I wanna sleep,” Mickey breathed, feeling his body weigh down, his muscles aching from being so tense for so long.

Somehow he ended up in bed, stripped down to his boxers with Ian pressed against his back, arm holding him around his middle again. They stayed like that for a while, Mickey drifting in and out of sleep, focusing on the sound of Ian’s breathing. 

Mickey doesn’t know where Mandy wet, probably to clean up the breakfast that never got eaten. He’s afraid to turn around and face Ian, to have Ian look at him like he’s fucking broken. Maybe Ian won’t though. 

So many people used to look at Ian that way, sometimes Mickey knew he used to look at him that way too. Ian hated it. Maybe Ian wouldn't look at him that way, because he knows how it feels. Ian is safe —Mickey’s lighthouse. 

So Mickey takes a deep breath and turns in Ian’s arms, he turns until he’s facing him and looking to his eyes —green and blue and understanding, no pity, nothing like that. Mickey feels like he can breathe again. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

Ian wraps his arm around him tighter, folding Mickey into his strong chest, and Mickey lets him, tucking his head under Ian’s chin. He kind of hates himself for being all weird and weak like this, doesn't like being snuggled or coddled like a kid, but right now, it’s okay.

 

* * *

 

** [Sunday] **

 

Evidently, Mickey slept through Saturday. The entire fucking day… just lost. When he woke up Sunday morning, Ian was propped up in bed, holding a book with one hand, the other gently running through Mickey’s hair. It felt good.

Mickey watched him for a little while, trying to figure out what to say, if he should say anything. There really wasn’t an _if_ to this situation, after the disaster that was Saturday morning, Ian deserved one hell of an explanation. 

“Hey,” Mickey said softly, his voice coming out all gravelly and full of sleep.

Ian looked over at him and gave a soft little smile, rubbing the pads of his fingers against Mickey’s scalp, “Morning.”

Mickey waited a minute, took a deep breath and said, “I’m gonna go to the bathroom… then uh…  I’m gonna come back and, we’ll you know, we’ll talk.”

Ian just nodded. So Mickey slipped out of bed, did what he needed to in the bathroom, including brushing his teeth because he felt fucking gross. 

He wasn’t really all that excited to talk to Ian, to tell him about… well, everything. He needed to tell him everything, he owed him that. Not even just because of the whole freak out yesterday, but also because they were supposed to take care of each other. They were supposed to be there for each other and all that shit. 

Mickey was tired of being worn down by all the shit he didn't say, all the shit that felt like a goddamn infection in his chest, all rotten and nasty. It was _enough_. Yesterday made that real fucking clear. This whole week made it clear. 

When he got back to bed, Mickey slipped under the covers, laying on his side, watching Ian do the same, facing him. The redhead reached out, smoothed a hand over the side of Mickey’s face, and scooted closer, wrapping his arm around his waist. 

Mickey sighed into Ian’s body, hoping that by the time they were done talking, he wouldn't be left alone in bed. There was a lot of shit that he didn't acknowledge, shit that he wasn't supposed to even think about anymore (things that he’d done) that he worried would make Ian hate him. Mickey didn’t think he’d be able to handle that.

“Before I uh…” Mickey sighed, his brows drawing together tightly. “Can you just—”

Ian was leaning forward before he even finished his statement, pressing his lips against Mickey’s, kissing him soft and slow. Mickey sighed into it, latching on to that feeling just in case. Just in case… he didn't even want to think about it, but just in case it was the last time. Mickey didn't know if it was an irrational thought or worry, but he couldn't handle it —the thought of losing Ian. Not again.

“It’s okay,” Ian breathed, leaning back, looking into Mickey’s eyes. Honest. All honest. “Whatever it is… it’s okay.”

Mickey nodded, taking a deep breath. It took a minute for him to figure out where to start, to get the words out. “My mom’s name was Halya. She died when I was six.”

Ian nodded, holding onto Mickey’s hand, threading their fingers together. Ian probably already knew that.

“My dad uh… he broke my fingers, playing this game he used to play with us boys. The _Nice To Meet You_ game —that’s what we called it,” Mickey continued. “Basically he’d you know, he’d shake our hands and introduce himself and then he’d fucking… he’d squeeze hard. And if you made any kind of move to show that you were hurt, you got the fucking belt. Those were the rules, you know?”

“Jesus Christ,” Ian whispered.

Mickey nodded, “Yeah. So this time, he did it too hard —he was fucking drunk and high on something, and he squeezed until my fingers just you know… just hairline fractures, but shit, it hurt like a _bitch_. So I cried and I yelled and I lost the game.”

“And he belted you,” Ian finished.

“Yeah,” Mickey said. “And then my mom took me to the clinic to get all patched up, giving them some bullshit, I don’t remember what excuse she came up with. She was good at that, coming up with shit why she was hurt or one of us kids were hurt. And then uh…” Mickey stopped gnawing on his bottom lip.

Ian rubbed his hand up and down Mickey’s arm, “It’s okay.”

“When we got back to the house, I remember my mom told me to go with Iggy and Colin and Mandy and go hide. And I knew what that meant, that my dad was gonna beat on my mom and she didn't want us to see that shit,” Mickey took a deep breath.

“Mandy was littler, you know, I don’t think she really got it. Maybe she did, I dunno. I was supposed to go with them. Told Iggy I’d be right there, but I lied. He went and hid. I was in the hallway.”

Some time during Mickey talking, his breathing started coming out rough, his body heating up. Ian pushed his hair out of his face and kissed his forehead, “Breathe, Mick.”

Mickey nodded, “Uhm… I was watching my mom and dad yelling at each other. She… I’d never seen her like that. Normally she just took it, but this time it was different. She was yelling at him, threatening to take us away, to leave him. And I remember this look on my dad’s face, like… like he couldn't believe that my mom had the fucking balls to speak to him like that, or some shit, you know?”

“I wasn’t supposed to see what happened. And it wasn’t on purpose, my dad is a fucking monster, but I swear to god, it wasn’t on purpose,” Mickey choked out, feeling that fire catch in his belly, his eyes stinging, “He hit her, in the mouth… and you know, busted her lip, she’s bleeding on her dress. She loved that dress.”

Mickey saw it happen over and over in his mind, how his dad cocked back his hand and just swung, back-handing his mom across the face. Her head snapped to the side, her dark hair shifting when it did. And then her blood dotting on her dress as she looked back at Terry, fire in her eyes. She’d had enough; she spit hard in Terry’s face, then caught sight of little Mickey in the hallway, her eyes softening and widening, her mouth opening to tell him something. 

He screwed his eyes shut, feeling Ian’s hand cradle the side of his face. Fuck. Fuck this, fuck this weak shit, he wasn't supposed to be this fucking weak.

“You can stop, if you want,” Ian whispered, his voice strained. 

Mickey opened his eyes, seeing Ian’s eyes rimmed in red; he was trying not to cry. Mickey shook his head. He needed to talk about this shit.

“He fucking… he pushed her so fucking hard,” Mickey breathed, “Just with everything he had, he pushed her. And she fell back… and uh, she fell backwards. _Fuck_. She fell back and—”

“Breathe, Mick,” Ian said softly.

“She cracked… she cracked her head or something on the edge of the counter. It happened so fucking fast. I didn't think that shit could actually happen, you know? But it did. He… he killed her, I saw it. He didn't mean to, but he did it.”

Mickey remembered Terry just standing there after it happened. He stood there and looked down at his wife, her eyes wide and lifeless. It happened so fucking fast. Mickey was glued to where he stood, watching Terry fall to his knees, dragging his hands through his hair, mumbling to himself, touching her face, trying to wake her up. 

He saw his father beat on his mother so much that the gentle touch was strange. Then Terry started yelling, ungluing Mickey from where he stood. He ran and found his brothers and sister. He remembered Colin asking what happened. But at the time, Mickey didn't even know, just saying that dad pushed mama and she's not getting back up.

“Shit,” Ian held on tight to Mickey.

Mickey inhaled deeply, “I don’t know what happened to her. She just… she disappeared and no one ever said anything. No one ever asked. We sure as hell never asked. You ask stupid fucking questions, you get beat on.” 

“Is that what happened yesterday?” Ian asked.

Mickey nodded, “It was uh… that fucking song. And Mandy, and the blood. She looks just like her. And just... everything this week -everything since I started working with Angela. It's fucking with my head, man -the stress, I guess. It just all fucking snowballed. And then that song played and I dunno, I just snapped.”

“What song?”

Mickey shrugged, “It was playing on the radio. Old ass song.” Mickey grinned, “My mom, she’d put the radio on and we’d have these little fucking stupid-ass dance party things, when we were real little. She liked that song.”

Ian nodded, “She sounds like she really loved you guys.”

“She did,” Mickey nodded, exhaling heavily.

“I’m so sorry,” Ian sighed, “Why were you worried about telling me that?”

Mickey huffed a bitter laugh, “That uh… that’s not what I’m worried about telling you, Ian. I’m worried about the shit that I’ve done that I’m not supposed to… I’m not supposed to talk about or think about. Shit I’m supposed to forget.”

“Like what?”

“Like shit I did because my dad told me to,” Mickey said. “Shit we all had to do —except for Mandy, you know.”

Ian stayed quiet for a minute before sighing, running his hand up and down Mickey’s side, “Mickey I’m not living in some fucking fantasy world where you’ve never… done things.”

“Because I’m a Milkovich,” Mickey said, his mouth tasting like it was full of acid. “Because it’s what we do, right? Fucking born to be bad people.”

“No, because of who your dad is,” Ian said. “Because you’d have to be fucking blind to think that any one of you had any fucking choice in anything.”

Mickey breathed out, unable to look in Ian’s eyes.

“What happened?” Ian asked, “What did he make you do?”

He didn't want to tell Ian this. But he felt like he had to, even though he was pretty sure that Ian would never look at him the same after he knew.

“There’s a body in a cemetery, in a plot that doesn't belong to it,” Mickey said, his voice low, his stomach twisting up in knots. He still couldn't look Ian in the eye. “I don’t know his name. I don’t know _why_. I just… I did it because Terry fucking told me to. I was sixteen and Terry made me uh… he made me put the gun right between his eyes and… fuck, he wouldn't stop until I did it. He wouldn't stop fucking screaming at me. Took fucking forever to pull the trigger. Crying like a little bitch, I didn’t want to… then I pretended the guy was my dad and it was easy. Just… fucking _easy_.”

“Jesus Mickey,” Ian breathed, “Look at me.”

Mickey shook his head, “Ian, I fucking… I killed a guy and I didn't even know his name. I don’t even know why Terry wanted him gone. He made us all… he wanted this perfect little army, little psychopath sons, just like him, you know. Shit he made us do, it wasn't right.”

Mickey tried to turn away from Ian, feeling sick and wrong, but Ian held onto him, “Don’t do this,” he said, “I’m not fucking going anywhere, Mickey.”

“I just wanna forget,” Mickey said. He was tired again, didn't fight the words anymore, there was no use. “I wanna forget about all that shit. All that shit I did for my dad, to show him I was a man, that I was fucking, I dunno, that I was worth something? That I could handle shit?”

“You don’t need validation from him, Mick—”

“Yeah I did,” Mickey said, finally looking at Ian, “I did. For most of my life, that’s all that mattered. Because I was a Milkovich, and there are certain… responsibilities, a certain way of life that makes a Milkovich man. And I know how fucked up and stupid that sounds. But it’s been that way forever. It’s how my dad was raised. How _his_ dad was raised…”

Ian kept silent that time, hand never leaving Mickey’s side, his fingers making small circles on his skin.

Mickey sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “The shit that I used to say to _you_ , fuck, to anyone that wasn’t straight or white or _whatever_. I’ve said some fucked up shit, man. Bad shit. Even when I _honestly_ didn't fucking agree with it. When I knew that it was fucked up.”

“Terry’s words,” Ian said.

Mickey nodded, “Yeah, but it doesn't matter, I still said it. Can’t take it back. How long am I gonna fucking blame daddy for all my problems?”

“Well, considering he’s the source for all your problems,” Ian huffed. “God, I fucking hate him. I hate him so much. I’m sorry he put you through that shit.”

Mickey sighed, slow and resigned. He was exhausted, even after having slept all through yesterday, he wanted to just lay in bed for the next week. “I’ve beat the shit outta people that probably didn't deserve it. Robbed people —robbed them blind, robbed them at gunpoint. Stolen shit that mattered to people, shit that you can’t fucking replace. And that shit with Svet-” 

"Stop," Ian said, "We've talked about that. We've _all_ talked about that, Mickey. That wasn't on you. That wasn't on her. I couldn't stop it even though it's all I wanted to do, I couldn't stop it. I wish I could have. It was Terry. Don't even put yourself anywhere near that blame. You didn't do anything wrong. He did."

He knew that, in the back of his head, he knew that Ian was right. Mickey hated thinking about that day. It was almost worse than the day Terry forced him to kill that guy. For so long he blamed Svetlana. Then he blamed himself, because you know, he's a guy and it didn't make sense to him, at the time, that he was also a victim in that. 

But they did talk about it, around the time Mickey started loving his son -it's what helped him love his son. It was the one and only time he and Svetlana had an honest, calm conversation, without any bullshit or insults or anger. Just cards on the table, this is what happened, this is how we got here, this is who _is_ to blame and this is who is _not_ to blame.

Jesus, how could Ian stick around for this shit? Mickey could barely do it, could barely understand how anyone would willingly be like _yes, this is the family that I choose to be a part of_. Mickey often wondered if Ian was waiting for his out.

He had a feeling that he'd regret saying the words, but he said them anyway, “I guess this is your chance. If you wanna, you know… hop off.”

Ian pulled a face, “Shut the _fuck_ up. I told you, I wasn't living in some fucking fantasy world where you haven’t done some heavy shit. We’re from South Side. Your dad is Terry Milkovich. And I’ve seen first-hand of just a  _fraction_ of what he’s capable of.”

Mickey frowned; Ian’s face was hard.

“You’re not like him,” Ian said. “You’ve got a fucking _soul_ , for starters. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say about the shit you’ve had to do. I really don’t, I wish I did. But I know Terry doesn't give options. You didn't have a choice. I hate that he made you do that shit. But I love you. That doesn't change. That will _never_ change. You’re also my best friend, and if you went out and killed someone tomorrow, I’d help you bury that body too.”

Mickey couldn't help it, he breathed out a laugh, “You’d fucking puke.”

“Probably,” Ian nodded, “But I’d do it. How many times do I have to tell you I’m ride or die? I feel like I should get that shit tattooed on my fucking forehead or something.”

Mickey let himself grin at that, let Ian kiss his mouth and hold him tight, tucking his head under Ian’s chin like the night before. This whole tucking-his-head thing was _not_ going to be a pattern. He just needed it right now, and had a feeling that Ian needed it too.

He stayed quiet for those few moments, going over Ian’s words, going over this whole fucked up morning. It was so much to deal with, but he felt a little… lighter? Something. It’s wasn't like this immediate epiphany of _everything’s going to be okay_ , but his stomach was a little more settled and his shoulders relaxed a little more.

He was sick of this. Sick of all this heavy shit.

“We should do something today,” Mickey said. “Take Yev to the zoo. Something.”

“I think he’d like that.”

“Me too,” Mickey said, “Get him a fucking picture with a monkey or something. Do they do that?”

“Maybe,” Ian shrugged. “I’ve only been once, when I was little.”

Mickey hummed, pressing his face into Ian’s collarbone, “I’ve never been.”

“Well, lets get showered and go grab him then. Get a picture of you with a monkey too.”

Mickey snorted a laugh, “Not fucking likely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this was not my original plan for this story, for it to turn kinda dark and all that, but it happens sometimes. I want to move past this, so I'm going to be trying to dig Mickey out of this. I kind of hate that I'm hurting Mickey like this, I feel like I keep doing that, and it's really not very fair, because I love Mickey so so much. He needs to be fucking happy. So. Yeah. I'm not even sure I like this one. Ugh. 
> 
> I think the whole confessional time for Mickey might have been kind of OOC and it's bothering me a little. Those were a lot of words for Mickey. Maybe. I dunno.  
> This chapter has been a fucking s t r u g g l e.
> 
> I don't know if it's needed to be pointed out, but the last time (in this story) that Mickey had a major panic attack was around the time of Yev's conception. I guess it doesn't really matter, but idk, I just wanted to put that in there.
> 
> Also, Mickey was having both a PTSD flashback _and_ a panic attack -which may be kind of one in the same? I'm not sure, I might be totally wrong, I'm sorry. I tried to stay true to what happens during these things, but it's different for everyone  & I am not an expert, but I did a lot of research & drew off my own experiences with panic attacks. 
> 
> The song that the Milkovich kids were dancing around to with Mama Milkovich is Runaway by Del Shannon. It's an old song that I like & kinda sad, but you can still dance around to, I thought. 
> 
> *sigh* Mickey, baby, I'm so sorry.


	13. Breathing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't updated this is FOREVER and I'm so so sorry about that!  
> I've been having major writers-block problems with this. Gah.

It wasn’t this huge turn-around where Mickey could finally live a stress-free life and be fucking happy, where everything was just coming up fucking roses. But he could breathe. And he could talk to Ian about shit. And he was better with it. 

Not a hundred percent okay, not totally on board with the whole _sharing_ thing, but Ian was safe and Ian was his best friend —and the fact that Ian hadn’t high-tailed out of there after Mickey spilled his guts was kind of the most amazing and fucking beautiful thing that anyone had ever done for him.

Long story short, Mickey was a work in progress. And he was slowly coming to terms with the fact that Mandy might have been right all along. He _might_ have had some kind of PTSD shit and he _might_ suffer from the rare panic attack when he’s reached his limit. 

It didn’t make it any less fucking annoying that 1. Mandy was right and 2. It still made him feel weak as hell, and embarrassed. Like _really_ fucking embarrassed. And Mickey hated feeling those things more than anything.

But the point was that he had gone through his episode, he’d felt it, he’d talked to Ian and now he was… okay. Mickey was okay, and had been for the past couple weeks.

Mandy ended up working for Charlie Foss. He needed a new assistant and Mandy was really great at getting shit done. Also, Charlie thought she was just the most fascinating creature he’d ever met. Mickey made it very clear to Charlie that he was _not_ to try to sleep with his sister. Charlie said he wouldn't dream of it, it was strictly business. 

Mickey still kept an eye on him.

Speaking of… Mickey’s phone buzzed while he was in the middle of getting ready for work. “Charlie, what’s going on, man?” Mickey cradled his cell phone against his ear while he brushed his hair into place with his fingers.

“Mickey, I’m so sorry to call you on such late notice,” Charlie started in that accent that Mickey still couldn't pin down, “I seem to be in a bit of a pickle. I have this charity event tonight and my date has come down with… well, let’s just say a terrible stomach virus and leave it at that. It’s a black-tie function, dinner, dancing —you know, a bunch of hoity toity’s making sure everyone know’s that they are giving back to the community.”

Mickey nodded while Charlie spoke, he shook his hands, flinging water droplets everywhere, after washing the hair wax off of them. Ian passed him in the bathroom and frowned at him, pointing to the towel rack. Mickey grinned, scooting away before the redhead could give him a titty-twister. 

“A’ight. How many girls you looking for?” Sometimes the guy would request three or four at a time. Mickey had no idea how he kept up with that much muff, or how he hadn't had a fucking stroke by now.

“Just one this time. I can’t remember if any of the girls dance… do you know?”

“You mean like that ballroom shit?” Mickey asked, watching Ian walk out of the bathroom butt-ass naked and grin over at him. That grin had Mickey’s mind running wild and his body instantly reacting. “Or are you looking for some after-hour special?”

Charlie laughed, “Leaning more towards ballroom, I guess. Just proper dancing.”

“Okay. I know Svetlana for sure can dance, and Katia,” Mickey paused; Ian’s long fingers tugged at Mickey’s sweatpants as he dropped to his knees. Mickey bit down hard on his lip when the redhead wrapped his lips around him. “Charlotte… Marisol… uhm… _fuck_ , and I wanna say, I wanna say Sonya.”

“Is Svetlana available? She is just a _gem_. I took her out for her first date and we had the best time. She can really keep a conversation refreshing, you know?”

“Yeah’s she’s uh, she’s real great,” Mickey said quickly. “As far as I know, she,” he took a deep breath, his hand fisting in Ian’s hair. Holy hell that man knew what to do with his mouth. “Uh, sorry… as far as I know, she’s free.”

Charlie had said something in return, but Mickey was too focused on Ian’s eyes looking up at him, nose pressed tightly against dark curls; Ian swallowed and hummed around him. Mickey’s hand tightened in that red hair and he gnawed harder at his lip to stop himself from moaning.

Fuck, what did Charlie say? “Ay, Charlie… my signal —fuck— my signal isn’t that great right now, what… what did you say?”

“I said if Svetlana is unavailable, then I would like to take Marisol,” Charlie said.

Mickey nodded again, not sure if it was directed to Charlie or the redhead working him with his hand and cheekily mouthing _you like that?_ up at Mickey, “Yeah, a’ight man, lemme make a couple calls and I’ll… I’ll get back to you, okay?”

“Okay, sounds great, Mickey! Thank you so much!”

Ian swallowed him down again.

“Talk —oh god— talk to you soon,” Mickey hung up the phone and tossed it behind him on the bed. “You’re a fucking menace, Gallagher— ugh _fuck_ …”

 

* * *

 

So the day had started off real nice, even though Mickey was about ten minutes later into the office than he had planned. No big fucking deal though, he was one of the bosses, who the fuck cared if he was late. 

Angela was hanging out at the front desk with Ava when Mickey walked into _Suited_. She grinned at him, following back to his office with a cup of coffee.

“What’s that look for?” she asked him.

“What look?”

“That little smile, relaxed shoulders, pep in your step… ah, satisfying morning sex, huh?” Angela knocked the back of her hand against his arm.

Mickey rolled his eyes and sat down behind his desk, “Wouldn’t you like to fucking know.”

“Well, I’m just gonna go ahead and take that as a _yes_ ,” she laughed, settling down in one of the chairs in front of his desk. “So, we have a _very_ lucrative opportunity coming up, if you’re interested.”

“Yeah? How lucrative?” 

Angela’s grin stayed in tact, “Well, I’m hoping to squeeze at _least_ eighty grand out of this investment company looking for an executive retreat… full package brothel style. They’ll do their meetings and whatever during the day, then the girls come play when that’s over.”

Mickey’s eyebrows instantly perked up. He could definitely be on board with that, “How many clients?”

“Eight big-wig’s. Five days. Twelve girls. I figure we’d throw each girl three grand for their time? I asked Charlie to look into some properties we can rent for the five days, he can get us a good price. I’ll have to run the numbers again, of course. Have to factor in catering and all those other extra necessities.”

Mickey was already making a checklist of what they’d need for this. They’d need security, first of all —Milkovich style. He didn’t trust anyone else for this. Some of the girls would have to step up to take care of any kids. 

They’d need a firm set of rules, background checks —he’d definitely have to stay at the place for the five days, or else he’d fucking go crazy, not knowing how it was going. He wasn't really looking forward to that, maybe Ian could come and help out and keep him company after work. Five fucking days, jesus.

“What do you think?” Angela asked.

Mickey nodded, “Sounds fucking good to me. We know all these guys?”

“We know a couple of them. Have to do backgrounds and all the usual preliminary on the others,” she replied, “Should be fine though, and hey, maybe we'll get a few new clients out of this too.”

“Let’s do it then. You got girls in mind?”

“You pick six, I’ll pick six?” Angela offered with a shrug.

“A’ight,” Mickey nodded again, watching Angela stand before she made her way out of his office. 

Remembering Charlie’s call that morning, Mickey sighed heavily and called Svetlana. 

“You free tonight?” 

“Why?” she asked.

Mickey closed his eyes and took a deep breath, “This is a yes or no question. Are you free tonight?”

“I am. Why?”

“Charlie Foss needs a date to this fucking charity shit-show. Dancing, acting like you got some class, you know. Can you handle that?”

Svetlana tutted on the other end of the line, letting out a string of Russian that Mickey had the distinct feeling was directed at him personally. “Yes, I can handle it. Mr. Foss is a nice man. He takes good care of girls.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey waved a dismissive hand, “You got a dress or some shit?”

“Of course I have a dress. I have many.”

“Okay good. I’ll let Charlie know,” he sighed. “How’s the kid?”

“He’s gets attitude like little-Ukrainian-shit father, is how he is doing,” she grumbled. “You talk to him, yes? Two’s were easy. Three’s are a bitch.”

Mickey breathed a laugh, “Yeah, I’ll talk to him.”

“He told me and Nika dinner was _fucking gross_ last night. Wonder where he heard that,” she continued.

Mickey’s eyes went wide and he covered his mouth with his hand, holding his breath. It was not funny. It was _not_ fucking funny.

“Mickey, this is not joke,” Svetlana hissed, “I do not want baby talking like that!”

“I know, I know!” Mickey laughed. “I talk to him, _fuck_.”

“Good. You can still pick him up from school, yes?”

“Yes, I fucking told you I would, didn't I?”

They hung up shortly after. Mickey made the call to Charlie, letting him know that Svetlana would be able to go as his date for the charity event. Charlie kept him on the phone for longer than he really liked, but it was whatever. The guy meant well, and really was a decent human being, so Mickey humored him with the small talk.

For lunch, Mickey dropped by Ian’s new gym. Sometimes they met up somewhere, but Mickey had extra time and hadn't actually been to the gym yet, so he was curious. There was this little part of him that didn't really want to step inside the building because he felt really fucking out of place. This was Ian’s world… fitness and being a people-person, all that shit.

The girl at the front desk looked at Mickey with these narrow eyes, giving him a once over; clearly not the best choice for a first impression of the establishment. She took one look at Mickey’s tattoos and pressed her lips together. That was happening more often than not, whenever Mickey walked into a new store or office, or just going to the fucking grocery store. He spent a lot of time with his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

Mickey arched a brow at her, “Ian busy?”

She gave him another once over, “Are you a member?”

His whole body heated up. Mickey wasn’t really that self-conscious about himself. Yeah, he didn't still have that eighteen-year-old body, but he wasn't some fucking troll-looking motherfucker and this fucking bitch looked at him like he was. Fuck her. 

“No,” he said, “I’m his boyfriend.”

This time her eyebrows shot up, “You’re Mickey?”

He nodded, “Yeah.”

“Oh…” she pressed her lips together again and nodded towards a long bench by the window, “I’ll page him, you can sit over there while you wait, if you want.”

Mickey gave her a hard look, pushing his tongue to the corner of his mouth to stop himself from saying anything. What a fucking bitch. Instead of sitting on the bench, he went outside and lit a cigarette, pulling hard on it.

Ian stepped outside a few minutes later. He grinned and leaned over to kiss the side of his head; Mickey hadn’t meant to, but he tensed up. It didn't go unnoticed.

“What’s wrong?”

Mickey shook his head, “You wanna go get lunch or no?”

“Yeah,” Ian said, frowning, “You okay?”

“Fine,” Mickey sighed, starting down the sidewalk towards their usual place they’d been going to. “Who’s that cunt at the front desk?”

“Jesus, Mick,” Ian looked over at him while they walked, “Lynn? Was she bitch to you or something? She’s kind of a bitch.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Mickey sighed.

“What did she say?”

Mickey shrugged, pulling on his cigarette, “Nothing, man. Don’t worry about it, shouldn't have brought it up.”

Ian groaned, frustrated. He yanked on Mickey’s arm, pulling him into an alley they were passing by, “What did she say?”

“She didn't say anything,” Mickey rolled his eyes. “She was just very fucking aware of the difference between you and me, so it’s whatever—” 

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m not even gonna entertain that shit with an answer. Stop looking at me like that, I don’t want to make this into a big thing. Don't start a fucking let's-make-Mickey-feel-better checklist. She's just a bitch. Don’t try to coddle me,  _please_.”

Ian’s soft face went hard, “I’m not trying to coddle you.”

“You got that _poor Mickey_ look. Stop. I just wanna go hang out, eat lunch, and then go back to the office.”

“Okay,” Ian sighed.

“Thank you,” Mickey dropped his cigarette and stepped on it. “Fuck.”

Before he could leave the alley, Ian grabbed him and pushed him against the wall behind him, laying a hard kiss on his lips. Mickey sighed into it, kissing him back briefly before gently pushing his boyfriend back. The kiss was obviously supposed to make Mickey feel better, and it did a little, but it’s still tasted like it might have been charity.

“Don’t do that,” Mickey said.

“What?”

“Fucking pity kiss me.”

Ian pulled a face, “Fuck you, I kiss you because I fucking want to. It’s purely selfish, I can guarantee you that.”

Mickey smiled, despite himself, “Keep it that way, a’ight.”

“I will,” Ian nodded, following Mickey out of the alley. “I’ll keep being a selfish motherfucker.”

“Good,” Mickey laughed, “That’s how I like you.”

Ian looked over at Mickey with wide eyes, “You like me? Like, _like-me-like-me_?”

Mickey rolled his eyes at his idiot boyfriend, “A little bit. Don’t let it get to your head.”

Lunch was nice. It always is though, it’s nice to just sit and eat with Ian and talk about shit. Mickey told him about what Yev said to Nika and Svetlana —his reaction was much like Mickey’s had been, trying not to laugh. Maybe it was because they born and raised South Side, but there were worse things in the world than a little kid spouting out words like that. Nevertheless, they planned on talking to the kid when they picked him up at school.

Mickey walked back to the gym with Ian. He didn't go inside, even though Ian wanted to show him around. He kind of felt like a little bitch about it, but he didn't want to see that Lynn girl again, have her looking at him like he was… not good enough, or something. Maybe he needed to take more walks or something, or get back into lifting. She kind of fucked with his head and Mickey kind of hated it. So better to avoid that shit altogether, right?

He wasn’t one for PDA, never really had been —old habits, and whatever they say about them. But Lincoln Park loosened Mickey up a bit and he didn't freak out anymore when Ian kissed him on the sidewalk or slung an arm across his shoulders.

“I’ll see you later,” Mickey said.

Ian nodded, “Try not to beat up too many rich dudes today.”

“Try not to let those housewives grab your ass too much,” Mickey shot back, grinning.

"I dunno, I kinda like it," Ian teased, shrugged.

Mickey laughed, shaking his head, "You would."

 

* * *

 

As soon as Ian walked back into the gym, he caught Lynn looking past him, watching Mickey walk away from the entrance. Her eyebrows were drawn up, lips pressed together in a less-than-impressed way that set Ian’s teeth on edge. Lynn was always a bitch and he didn't really know her that well, but still… not okay.

Ian leaned his elbows on the top of the front desk, “You got a problem with my boyfriend?”

“I didn’t say anything,” she sighed, bored tone dripping all over the place.

“Didn’t have to,” Ian shrugged. “It’s written all over your face. Which, I don’t really know what your problem is because I think I’m pretty damn lucky. He’s fucking hot as hell —and not that you want to know this and not that it’s any of your business… but he makes me come harder than anyone I’ve ever been with.”

Her lip curled back in a grimace, “Yeah, you’re right. I don’t want to know about that and it’s none of my business.”

“I’m just saying… you don’t know him. So I’d appreciate it if you didn't look at him like he’s less than. Because you couldn't be more wrong.”

Lynn stayed silent, leaning back in her chair, her arms folding under her chest.

“You know, not for nothing, but there’s a lot of people in this world that don’t go to places like this —even when they really want to— because of people like you.”

“You can’t talk to me like that,” she huffed.

Ian shrugged again, “I’m just saying… something to think about.”

 

* * *

 

Picking up Yev from school never ceased to make Mickey feel like a literal superhero. Yev got so fucking excited to see him and Ian, running towards them, flinging his little around around them, showing them around the classroom at drawings and other projects. Every single time. And it never got old, even though Yev had probably given them the same exact tour every time they picked him up.

After that, they would go home. Mandy was already back; Yev was fucking obsessed with his Aunt Mandy —when he addressed her it came out as _An’manny_. Mandy was as equally obsessed with him and they would do shit like color and watch cartoons and bake cookies —shit that Mickey thought most kids did with their aunts (Mickey didn't even know that his sister had a maternal bone in her body). The kid was so loved, it was insane.

Talking to Yev about the bad words felt like a fruitless cause. The kid was being raised around people who couldn't form a fucking sentence without a swear word. He was probably going to have a mouth just like Mickey’s when he got older, so… it was just kind of weird and Mickey felt like the biggest hypocrite. Like when he got on Carl about dealing drugs —he felt like he had absolutely no fucking authority to tell the kid shit about it. 

But Yev seemed to understand that he was too little to be talking like that, so as far as Mickey was concerned, he’d done his part. Maybe. Hopefully. Even Ian was kind of at a loss about what to do. Neither one of them had ever been given the _you don’t talk like that_ speech.

After dinner, everyone piled into the living room because Yev wanted to watch cartoons before bed. Mickey didn't know what was on, but the kid was fucking glued to it, curled up in Mandy’s lap, his big eyes all wide and a constant half-smile cracked over his face. 

Mickey watched him while he leaned back into Ian’s chest —who had his arm slung across his front, his hand mindlessly alternating between rubbing the back of Mickey’s hand and smoothing over his stomach and chest, basically fucking _petting_ him. He’d been doing that a lot lately, ever since Mickey had his freak-out, like he was trying to give his hands and body more “positive attention” or something like that. Mickey didn't mind, it felt good and Ian always backed off if Mickey asked him to.

But overall, Mickey had to admit… he had a pretty fucking decent life now. It had been a hell of a bumpy road to get to this place, but it was nice now. It was comfortable.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno, I'm not so happy with this, but maybe this story needed a breather? Hm.  
> Also I know the Ian perspective is rare, but I kinda needed it. It's so hard for me to get into Ian's head though. idk. 
> 
> I'm tryin man. I wish I could say expect a new update for this soon, but maybe give it a week or something? Who knows. Ugh. Writing is like... hard and stuff.


	14. This Ain't South Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mickey, what do you think?” Angela called over, holding up a black jacket that looked exactly like the other eighty-thousand fucking jackets that she’d held up before.

“Papa.”

Mickey grunted, hearing Yev’s little voice whisper in front of his face.

“Papa,” Yev said again. Mickey felt a tiny hand pat the side of his face.

He grunted again in response, pressing the side of his face deeper into his pillow. Maybe Yev would get the hint and go the fuck back to bed. Maybe. Probably not.

Mickey tried to mumble out a, “What?” but it was barely recognizable as anything other than yet another grunt. His bed was too comfortable and he was too tired to deal with whatever it was that Yev wanted him to deal with. Ah fuck, what if he peed the fucking bed? Yev hadn’t done that in a while, but still.

Yev stayed quiet, and even though Mickey still had his eyes closed, he just knew that his kid was standing there fucking _staring_ at him. So finally, with a heavy sigh, he opened his eyes.

“S’goin on?” 

Yev had this very nervous look on his little face, chewing on his lip, his Spiderman pajamas rumpled from sleep.

“You piss the bed?” Mickey mumbled.

Yev shook his head. Thank god.

“Bad dream?”

The kid nodded.  

Yev didn't have a lot of bad dreams and from what Mickey could tell, they were just your general _monster under the bed_ kind of nightmares that little kids had. But after the kid had one of these nightmares, he couldn't fall asleep in his own bed, and insisted on wedging himself between Mickey and Ian in the middle of the night, effectively creating his own dad-safety-barrier. It might have been cute if it weren’t -Mickey glanced over at his alarm clock… three in the fucking morning?! Fucking Christ.

Mickey sighed, rubbing at his eyes before pointing to the floor, “Gimme my boxers.”

Yev did as he was told, waiting patiently for Mickey to shimmy into them while keeping under the covers; he kept chewing at his lip and fidgeting. Mickey elbowed Ian until the redhead stirred with a grunt.

“Boxers,” Mickey sighed.

Ian didn't even question it. He was probably still half-sleeping; he moved around, grabbing his underwear off the floor and pulling them on before rolling back over to sleep. 

With a quiet grunt, Mickey lifted the covers, letting Yev climb in. Instead of crawling over Mickey like he normally did, to settle in between him and Ian, Yev snuggled his little body up against Mickey’s chest.

Mickey dropped the blanket, his eyebrows pulling together as he almost hesitantly wrapped his arm around his son. Yev tucked his little head under Mickey’s chin, his arms also tucking in close to his body, so he was essentially a little lump of a body pressed against Mickey.

“You okay?” Mickey asked.

Yev nodded.

“What’d you dream?”

The kid didn't say anything for a while, just laid there and fidgeted a little, the top of his blonde head knocking against Mickey’s chin. This was going to be a fucking nightmare. Yev was like a goddamn furnace and sometimes he kicked. If he kicked Mickey in the fucking balls, Mickey was going to be fucking pissed.

“Yev,” Mickey sighed. “The fuck’re you doing?”

“I dreamed that uh,” Yev sniffed, “I dreamed I woked up and you were gone.”

“I was probably out getting cigarettes,” Mickey mumbled, keeping his eyes closed. “Or getting your little annoying ass donuts.”

Yev snorted a little laugh. But it didn't really sit right with Mickey that his kid was having _nightmares_ of him skipping out or something. He squeezed Yev a little tighter against him and kissed the top of his blonde head.

“You know I ain’t going anywhere, right?” Mickey asked.

“I know,” Yev yawned.

Mickey felt his body relax a little at that, “Good. Now go to sleep.”

“Okay. Night Papa.”

“Night, kid.”

“Love you, Papa,” Yev yawned again, wrapping one arm around Mickey as best he could, hugging him tightly.

Mickey took a little longer to say it back. Not because he didn't love his kid. He did. It was just… not something they said a lot. It was still kind of new, kind of weird to say those words to anyone other than Ian. But he knew it was important. He couldn’t withhold that shit from his kid like Terry had with him and his siblings. 

He kissed the top of Yev’s head again, inhaling that toddler smell that was oddly comforting. “Love you too.”

Yev sleeps through the rest of the night. He kicks and wriggles constantly against Mickey till the point where Mickey —not so gracefully— scoops the kid up and all but tosses him over his body so he lands between him and Ian. The kid doesn't even wake up though, so Mickey doesn't worry about it. 

The mornings with Yev are… interesting. Like Mickey, Yev doesn’t exactly _do_ mornings. He’s a grumpy little shit, glaring at everyone and whines about having to brush his teeth. But Ian makes him scrambled eggs and toast, so that perks him up a little bit.

While Mickey and Ian have their coffee, Mickey gets a phone call from Iggy. It’s way too fucking early in the morning for his brother, so Mickey feels his stomach drop as he picks his phone up.

“Ay,” he says, “Since when do you wake up this fucking early?”

"You free this weekend?” Iggy asks. “Gotta do this run. Could use the backup.”

Mickey glances over at Ian, “Maybe.”

Iggy huffs, “Never fucking mind, if you gotta check in with the hubby first.”

“Fuck you, it ain’t even like that,” Mickey frowns. Ian finally looks up at him, brow arching curiously. “I can do it. Where to?”

“Uh…” Iggy hesitated. “Nashville.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Mickey snarled, getting up from the kitchen table and walking into his and Ian’s bedroom. That was a long drive for a run, especially with the kind of shit Iggy transported. It was risky. “That’s like what, eight hour drive —on a good day? The fuck are you running?”

“Ay, chill the fuck out,” Iggy laughed. “I got ten AK’s. I got five berettas. I got—”

“Okay, okay,” Mickey waved a dismissive hand as he paced. “Fuck. What're you looking to make off this shit?”

“Ain’t my shit man,” Iggy replied. “But this guy’s throwing me five grand.”

Ian came into the bedroom at that point, leaning against the doorframe, watching Mickey carefully. Mickey knew that Ian wasn’t going to make a big fucking deal about this shit, but still it was a risk. Eight hour drive with that much heat? Yeah that was a huge fucking risk.

“You going fucking soft on me?” Iggy’s voice taunted Mickey on the other end of the line.

“Told you I could do it,” Mickey said.

“A’ight. Cool,” his brother said. Mickey heard him light up a cigarette. “Saturday. Seven?”

“Yeah. Fine. You and Colin gotta fucking help me with this security thing though. In a couple weeks. You good for that?”

“Yeah, man.”

Mickey hung up his phone and looked back over at Ian. They didn't say anything for a while. 

“Gotta help Iggy with a run this weekend. Leaving Saturday night.”

Ian nodded. “Need help?”

Mickey couldn't help it, he grinned, “Nah, man. We got it. Besides, your dopey ass can’t play cool for shit.”

Ian laughed, reached out to pinch Mickey’s arm, “Fuck you.”

“You uh…” Mickey sighed, running a hand over his hair, “You good with this?”

Ian shrugged, “I mean… I’m dating a Milkovich. Comes with the territory.”

Mickey nodded, “Ai’ght.”

“ _You_ good with it?” Ian asked.

“Comes with the territory,” Mickey huffed a laugh.

Ian closed the space between them and wrapped his long arms around Mickey’s shoulders, “Just be careful. I’ve kind of gotten attached to you.”

Mickey grinned arching a brow, “Really?”

“Mmhm,” Ian hummed, leaning forward to brush his lips against Mickey’s. It send a little shudder through Mickey’s body as he kissed him back, grabbing onto his boyfriends hips.

 

* * *

 

Ever since Mickey met with the dirty cops, he’d had one thing hovering in the back of his mind: Svetlana probably shouldn't work anymore. Maybe he could keep her on as something else. But this shit… it’ll get real fucking hard to explain to Yev later on. And Mickey wasn't exactly winning best friend of the year to the rich doughy's of Lincoln Park so... why put his kid's mother in any possible line of fire?

It wasn’t something that had been eating at him, or keeping him up at night. But it was definitely something that he thought about now and then. She probably wouldn't be too enthused about it. The money in Lincoln Park, for his girls, was fucking good. It was hard to walk away from that kind of money.

So Mickey ended up doing something he really didn't want to do: called Svetlana into the office so they could talk.

He heard her fucking heels clicking on the tile floor long before she walked into his office. Mickey didn't stop the snort of laughter. It was hard to take her seriously sometimes, when she was all done up like that. Even though she looked nice, it was just… it was _Svetlana_. Like… his fucking lesbian(? —who the fuck knew anymore) Russian hooker wife and mother of his child. Like, come on.

“You call me here to laugh at me, I go home,” she glared at him.

“Sit down,” Mickey rolled his eyes. “Gotta talk to you about something.”

Her eyebrows arched upwards, “Baby okay?”

“Yes, the kid is fine,” Mickey waved off. “You should stop fucking calling him that though, you’re gonna turn him into a little pansy-boy.”

It was Svetlana’s turn to roll her eyes as she let out a string of something in her native tongue.

“Will you fucking stop—“ Mickey huffed, clenching his jaw. He really hated that shit. “You uh… you been having trouble with any Johns?”

Svetlana shook her head, “No. I tell you if there is problem.”

“Everything’s okay?”

She gave him an odd look, like she was trying to figure out what exactly he was getting at. “I have roof over my head, food in my belly and a husband I don’t fuck. This is American dream, is it not?”

He really hated when she got him to laugh. “Yeah, that’s the American dream.”

“Then I am good.”

“A’ight well…” he sighed. “I don’t think you should, you know, work anymore.”

His wife’s face went hard, “You firing me?”

“No,” Mickey said. “I’m not fucking firing you. I just… it’s probably best for the kid, you know? And I ain’t exactly making a lot of friends here right now so…”

This slow, smug smile spread across Svetlana’s face, “You are worried about me?”

“Fuck off,” Mickey raised his middle finger. “I’m more worried about the poor motherfucker who tries shit with you.”

“So I stop taking clients and I… start waiting tables? This is not good for me, I will make much less money,” she crossed her arms under her chest.

“No, we’ll figure some shit out,” Mickey sighed. 

“I have clients booked for next three weeks,” Svetlana said.

“Yeah I know. Finish those up and by then I’ll have talked to Angela about this shit, okay?”

She nodded, shrugging her shoulders, “Okay. Yevgeny stays with you this weekend?”

Mickey lifted his shoulders, “He can. But I ain’t gonna be there.”

“Where you going?” she asked, raising a brow.

“Well,” Mickey gave her a sarcastic grin, “None of your fucking business. Don’t you got some old rich fuck to blow, or something? We’re done here.”

Svetlana let out another string of angry Russian as she stood from the chair, ending in an equally angry sounding, “Should have bashed head in when I had the chance. Little Ukrainian shit.”

Mickey just kept grinning, waving to her as she left, “Ay, don’t forget to wipe all that old-man spunk off your face when you’re done. This ain’t South Side, gotta keep that shit classy.”

“Fuck you!”

Mickey snorted a laugh.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, Mickey was in hell. There were few things in this life that he hated more than shopping. With the upcoming executive-retreat-brothel thing, Angela had all but strong-armed him into shopping for a nice suit. 

She was floating around the store, grabbing shirts and jackets and directing a fidgety little narrow-shouldered shit who kept glancing at Mickey’s tattoos with mild alarm. Being completely out of his fucking element, Mickey just kind of stood by the dressing room and waited. 

He felt this little pang of pressure flutter in his chest, a little anxiety or something. Nothing to be too worried about, but this was all just really out of his element. Luckily —or unluckily, depending on how you looked at it— Mickey didn't have to do much else but stand there and wait. Angela had it all covered.

“Mickey, what do you think?” Angela called over, holding up a black jacket that looked _exactly_ like the other eighty-thousand fucking jackets that she’d held up before. 

This whole store was like a one-stop-shop for formal wear. Shoes, coats, suits, tuxes, a case of nice watches, cuff links, handkerchiefs, among other things… it was a bit much. There were suits and dress-shirts in every fucking color imaginable, and patterns too. 

And the ties… holy fuck, so many damn ties.

“Yeah great,” Mickey sighed. “Listen, I need a fucking smoke—”

“Just two more minutes, I promise!” Angela handed the twitchy guy a couple ties, “Can you put those with the Givenchy —and this with the Hugo Boss? And you know what, nevermind about the Burberry, he’s not a Burberry guy, you can put that back.”

“The fuck is a Burberry?” Mickey mumbled to himself. He was about to fucking leave. This was ridiculous.

Ten minutes later, Mickey was tugging uncomfortably on the collar of a very expensive button-down shirt and standing even more uncomfortably in front of Angela’s critical gaze. Both suits she had picked out were all black. Black pants and vest and jacket and shirt and tie. He had to admit, he did feel kind of really fucking good. Somewhere between sitting at the head of a boardroom table and shoving a gun in someone’s mouth.

“Okay it fits, can we fucking go now?” Mickey sighed, because honestly, it had been over an hour of this shit. “Why the fuck do I have to dress like this?”

“Because these are fortune five-hundred big-wigs, and you have to be _Lincoln Park_ Pimp Mickey… dangerous but classy as fuck, hence the all black.” Angela told him with a grin; she smoothed out the lapels of his jacket and stood behind him as they looked into the mirror together, “And because I have been wanting to get you in a suit since day one.”

“So _I’m_ dressing up for the rich guys now?” Mickey snorted. 

Great, now he felt like one of the fucking girls, getting a makeover to impress the clients. This was so fucking weird and he really didn't give too many fucks about what the clients thought about how he dressed… but at the same time, it kind of made sense. Suited was a high-class establishment and him running around in cut up t-shirts or cheap button-down’s wouldn't exactly cut it forever or have these assholes take him seriously. Still though, weird.

“You don't have to wear a three piece suit every day, Mickey. It’s five days out of your life, I think you’ll survive,” Angela raised her brows at him. “Who knows, maybe you’ll like walking around like this.”

“Not fucking likely.”

Angela laughed, “You’re such a brat sometimes, you know that?”

Mickey narrowed his eyes at her, “Yeah well, you suck.”

“Actually, that would be _you_ , my dear,” she winked at him. 

Mickey’s face went white-hot, needing to change the subject, “Fine… so, how does it look?”

Angela smiled, “You look like the baddest motherfucker in Chicago. You are gonna get _so_ laid in that. Ian’s gonna flip.”

Mickey sighed as he kept looking in the mirror, “Whatever.” 

He vaguely wondered what the suit would look like if he was wearing one of those badass shoulder gun holster things underneath. Maybe he should invest in one of those —like a nice one, leather with nice buckles or something. Not like he had much use for something like that anymore, but still… it would look real fucking badass. Yeah. Yeah he looked good as hell in this suit. Damnit.

Angela turned to the twitchy store-helper person (Mickey didn't know what the fuck his job title was… resident ferret?), “He’ll take the Givenchy and the Hugo Boss.”

“You weren’t happy with the Armani?” Ferret boy squeaked.

“It was a bit _on the nose_ ,” Angela replied. Mickey had no idea what that meant.

“And for the shoes?”

“Do you like those?” Angela turned to Mickey. “Are they comfortable?”

Mickey raised his brows at her, “Who me?”

Angela pulled a face at him, “Yes you.”

“Yeah,” Mickey shrugged, looking down at the black boots. They were almost like combat boots, but much _much_ nicer.

“Good, because I love those,” Angela grinned. “Okay so the Givenchy, the Hugo Boss, the Prada ankle boots and… I really liked those Montblanc cuff links -with the tie bar.”

“Excellent!” Ferret boy beamed. “Anything else today?”

Mickey raised a brow at him and it was enough to send the guy scampering towards the cash register. “Can I go get the fuck out of this now?”

Angela rolled her eyes, “Yes. Or you could wear it home… you know, test it out.”

“Test it out?” Mickey asked dumbly.

“With Ian. Don’t look at me like that, all you gotta do is walk through the front door and the suit will do the rest,” she shrugged. “Do you want to go look at colognes?”

“No,” Mickey replied quickly. For the love of God and baby Jesus, _no_.

 

* * *

 

Mickey’s stomach was in knots as he stood in front of his apartment door. He smoothed out his suit for probably the fiftieth time and sighed before turning the handle and walking inside. It was pretty quiet except for a low drone of the TV coming from the living-room. 

“Mick?” Ian’s voice called.

“Yeah,” Mickey called back, shoving his hands into his pockets, making his way out of the hallway and into where Ian was.

“Ow ow!” Mandy, who was coming back in from the patio, cupped her hands around her mouth and howled at him. “Holy shit. Look at you!”

Mickey felt his face heat up and he flipped her off, “Fuck off.”

Ian turned around on the couch to look back at Mickey. The redhead’s face fell, eyes going wide, “Holy shit Mickey.”

He lifted his shoulders, unable to stop the grin from spreading over his face, “Well? Do I look respectable now?”

“Excuse me, Mandy,” Ian mumbled, slowly climbing off the couch. “I need to go fuck your brother.”

“Oh gross,” Mandy pulled a face.

Mickey shook his head, mostly in amusement, as Ian rounded the couch and grabbed his hand, dragging him away into their bedroom. Once Ian shut the door and turned to face Mickey, he held him out at arms length, just looking at him up and down. His eyes were still wide and searching and dark. Ian licked his lips. Mickey’s whole body tightened up.

“This doing it for you?” Mickey chuckled.

“Like you have no fucking idea,” Ian replied. “You look like… one of those Mafia guys.”

Mickey felt a swell of smugness bubble up in his chest as he opened his jacket to reveal what he’d picked up on the way home. The shoulder holster only held one gun, but he wasn’t trying to look like a fucking cowboy. And his glock fit nicely —he always kept one in his car, so thankfully he wasn't just tooling around with an empty holster, like an idiot.

Ian swallowed hard, “That loaded?”

“Nah, I unloaded it before I came in,” Mickey grinned.

“Christ,” the redhead breathed. “Stay here, I have an idea.”

“Huh?”

“Just… _fuck_ , just stay here,” Ian said, leaning forward to press his lips against Mickey’s. It was soft and quick and almost kind of innocent, making Mickey’s body all nice and warm.

Completely fucking lost, Mickey shrugged, watching Ian turn off the overhead light and then walk into their closet, shutting the door behind him. He stood there for a few minutes in the almost-dark (the bedside table lamp was still on), shoving his hands in his pockets, rocking on the balls of his feet. The moment was slipping away and he was starting to wonder if anyone had made anything for dinner.

“Okay ready?” Ian called from inside the closet.

“Yes, please come out of the closet,” Mickey laughed at his own little joke. 

When Ian walked out, he stopped laughing and wet his lips. “You brought those?”

Ian grinned, looking down at his sparkly gold shorts and boots, “Yep.”

It had been a long time since Ian danced in a club, but every once in a while, he danced for Mickey. They both got into it, got a little goofy about it, trying to take something kind of fucked up about Ian’s life and turn it into something _lighter_. It was always on Ian’s terms though, and Mickey was more than okay with that. Ian dancing for him was always _always_ worth the wait. 

And he knew that in a really weird, fucked up way, it helped soften those memories —what little memories that Ian had about that time of his life. Making _new_ memories, or whatever. It made sense to him and Ian, and that was all that was important.

Mickey watched Ian, not able to take his eyes off of him for even a second. His boyfriend put some (truly fucking awful) music on and closed the space between them, grabbing his tie.

“Hundred bucks for a dance,” Ian grinned.

Mickey pulled a face, “What!? Hundred bucks?”

Ian shrugged, pressing his body against Mickey’s, “Can’t swing it? That’s too bad.”

He wanted to reach out and grab Ian, but Mickey kept his hands shoved into his pockets, “I can swing it. I just don’t think my boyfriend would like it too much.”

Ian rolled his eyes, fighting a grin. He pressed his lips against Mickey’s ear and breathed hotly, “I won’t tell.”

Mickey slipped his hand into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, “What he don’t know won’t hurt him, right?”

“ _Right_ ,” Ian gave Mickey a look before he grinned, holding out the waist of his shorts for Mickey to gently slip in a hundred dollar bill. 

Mickey brushed his hand against Ian’s bare hip, letting his touch linger for a second. Fuck, he wanted to touch his boyfriend everywhere. His skin always felt so fucking good. He wanted to sink his teeth into the cut of the redhead’s hip. Ugh.

Ian lead Mickey to the armchair in the corner of their room and gently pushed him to sit, climbing into his lap, caging Mickey in with his thighs. He couldn't help it at that point, Mickey grabbed Ian’s hips, taking a deep breath.

But Ian tsk’d him, taking his hands off of his body and placing them on the arms of the chair, “Can’t touch the dancers, sir.”

“Come on,” Mickey groaned, gripping the chair tightly.

Ian started rolling his hips to the music, resting his hands on the back of the chair, grinding himself against Mickey. He moved in time with the music, slowly moving his hands down to rest on Mickey’s shoulders, then sliding them down his chest, opening up his jacket a little to look at the holster again.

“How’s your day going?”

“Better now,” Mickey wet his lips, completely and shamelessly eye-fucking the hell out of his boyfriend. How he managed to snag this motherfucker was beyond Mickey, but he wasn’t about to complain. Ian was fucking beautiful. “Can I touch you?”

Ian shook his head slowly with a smile. Mickey gripped the arms of the chair until his fingers ached.

“So, are you a cop?” Ian asked.

Mickey could barely focus, completely entranced by the way Ian’s pale body moved in the dim light, the way his muscles moved under his skin. “No.”

“Hm,” Ian breathed, “Are you… a fed?”

Mickey gave a soft laugh at that, “Nope.”

Ian’s hands worked their way up and down Mickey’s chest, up his shoulders, helping him out of his jacket. He gently laid it over the back of the chair and continued to touch Mickey wherever he could reach. It felt so good, Mickey was about to fucking lose it.

“Are you… the head of a crime syndicate?” Ian asked with a little teasing smile, his pace slowing down.

Instead of answering, Mickey dropped their little game and asked again, “Can I touch you?” his voice barely recognizable. Mickey was rock fucking hard, having Ian grinding up on him like that, looking so good, doing this for him. God, it was almost too much. 

“Yeah,” Ian panted.

He sat up a little straighter, grabbing Ian’s hips, their chests pressing together. Ian moaned softly, his arms wrapping around Mickey’s shoulders, keeping his lips brushing against his ear.

“Shit,” Mickey panted. His whole body was tingling, unable to get enough friction.

“You like that?” Ian’s voice kind of slurred together as Mickey’s hands slid down to run up and down his thighs, feeling the muscle tense and relax with every roll of Ian’s hips.

“Yeah, I like that,” Mickey nodded, brushing his lips against Ian’s collarbone. He had half the mind to pick the redhead up and toss him onto the fucking bed.

Instead, he opened his mouth and dragged his teeth against the skin of his collarbone, making Ian shiver and still in his lap for a second. Mickey smirked, doing it again and again, pulling him closer and moving his hips to meet Ian’s thrusts. He did this until he had his boyfriend shaking and moaning in his lap, his lips and tongue working the spot behind Mickey’s ear that never failed to make his eyes roll.

Ian wasn’t following the rhythm of the music anymore, just rocking and touching and breathing in Mickey’s ear. “Fuck, Mick.”

Mickey was definitely going to have to get this fucking suit dry-cleaned or something, but he didn't give two shits. He straightened up even more, bringing Ian closer, if possible, completely supporting Ian as the redhead ground hard against him. Ian punched out these broken moans and gripped Mickey hard with his thighs as Mickey grabbed roughly at his ass.

He was completely lost, his body vibrating and heating and head spinning. Mickey clenched his eyes shut and moaned into the kiss that Ian pressed to his lips, kissing him hard and slow. Fuck, everything felt so good. Every nerve-ending sparked and shuddered, feeling this rush of complete and utter urgency wash over him.

“Want you,” Mickey rasped against Ian’s mouth. “Please. Can I? Please.”

Ian nodded, slowing his body down, working Mickey’s tie off, “Let’s get you out of these fucking clothes.”

 

* * *

 

It was late when Angela called Mickey. He and Ian were laying in bed after a third round of _very_ enthusiastic fucking. His nice suit was neatly placed over the back of the armchair, and the bedsheets were a fucking mess. It was kind of perfect.

“Sorry to call you so late,” Angela said. “We’ve got a problem.”

“What’s going on?” Mickey immediately frowned.

“You know how you told me to get in touch with other agencies about James Schulz, in case he shows his ass again?”

Mickey sighed, not liking where this was going, “What’d he do?”

“Same thing he did to Serena,” Angela’s voice was bitter as she spat out the words. “I’m so fucking tired of guys like these.”

“Fuck. Me and you both,” Mickey said, his body humming and tense. 

“The good news about this —if you want to call it good news— is that this agency works more as a brothel… and they have everything on tape. Guess Mr. Schulz didn't know about that. So… I mean, _again_ , not good news probably, but it’s _something_.”

“Fuck, that’s as good as we’re gonna get,” Mickey snorted. “I’m going out of town this weekend. I’ll take care of that shit when I get back though, okay? You tell whatever agency that I’ve got it. Don’t make a move on that fucker, he’s mine.”

“That’s what I told them,” Angela replied. “They wanted to handle this in-house, but I told them that you’ve more-or-less had dibs on that bastard. They’re willing to take a step back as long as it gets handled.”

Mickey felt Ian’s hand rest on the back of his shoulder. “Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay. Oh, hey did the suit work?”

Mickey grinned and rolled his eyes, but kept silent.

“Told you it would,” she said, her smile evident.

He felt his body relax a little and gave a little shrug, because why not, “I mean… it worked three times, so…”

“Damn boy!” Angela laughed. “Okay, I’ll let you go so you can make it a fourth.” 

Mickey rolled his eyes after they hung up. Ian was still looking at him with, slight concern covering his face. Mickey sighed, settling back against the headboard next to Ian, letting his boyfriend sling an arm across the back of his shoulders.

“I gotta take care of James Schulz when I get back from doing that run with Iggy,” Mickey explained. “He worked over another girl, from another agency.”

“Jesus,” Ian sighed. “What’re you gonna do?”

“What I told him I was gonna do,” Mickey replied.

“You… gonna kill him?” Ian asked, his voice soft and careful.

Mickey stared down at his hands. He _should_. He'd pretty much told Schulz he would kill him if he fucked up again. But Schulz was a little too high-profile; people would notice and _care_ if he just disappeared.  

“Can't. But I’m gonna take everything away from him. Fucking ruin him.”

Ian sighed, long and drawn out. He leaned over and pressed his lips against Mickey’s head, “Just watch yourself, okay?”

Mickey looked over at Ian and gave him a little grin, “I’ll be okay. Schulz is a fucking pussy.”

Ian grinned back, shifting until he was straddling Mickey’s lap, “But you’re not,” he said, sliding his hands up Mickey’s chest, leaning down for a kiss.

Mickey huffed a soft laugh and wrapped his arms around Ian’s waist, “You know, I could swear it turns you on when I have to take care of business.”

“It's weird. But it totally does,” Ian hummed against Mickey’s lips, rocking his body against him.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Mickey panted, kissing Ian harder, sliding his hands down his back to grab onto his ass.

Ian pressed his forehead against Mickey’s, “Yeah but you get off on it getting me off. Fucking tough guy.”

Okay, he had him there. Mickey grinned, grabbing Ian by the back of the thighs as he propelled himself forward, taking down the redhead until he was pinning him down against the mattress. Ian looked up at him with wide, surprised eyes before he gave a wicked, slow smile.

“You're like a little powerhouse,” Ian breathed.

Mickey pulled a face, because what the fuck, “You just call me little?”

Ian scrunched up his face and laughed, trying to wriggle away, “Mickey… no! _Wait_ —”

“You mother _fucker,_ ” Mickey shot a hand out and grabbed onto Ian’s nipple between his curled pointer finger and thumb, pinching and twisting until Ian howled a laugh, batting at his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> organized crime Mickey & dancer Ian?  
> serving up au's in au's. au-inception lol
> 
> PSA: Despite my love of Sons of Anarchy, I obviously never retained any pertinent information & know nothing about gun runs, how long would be considered "too long" or "risky", how much to make off a run and whatever. So excuse any mistakes or over-dramatics about an eight hour drive with illegal guns. Because to me, a five minute drive is too long, lets be real, I'm a little bitch who cannot hang with the Milkovich's. ha. I tried.
> 
> Also, fuck the concept of having to go to a tailors, amirite? These are magical suits that just fit without question. Makes sense.


	15. Nashville

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Been a long time since we haven’t slept in the same bed,” Ian murmured against Mickey’s shoulder.
> 
> Mickey grinned against Ian’s neck, “It’s one night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Skinheads ahead. (Internal) homophobic language.

Mickey dug through his dresser drawers, feeling Ian’s eyes on him. His boyfriend wouldn't say it out loud, but he was freaking the fuck out, Mickey knew that for a fact. And he couldn't blame him. An eight hour drive in a van packed with heavy guns? Yeah, it was a risk even though Iggy and Colin were packing up most of the van with junky furniture and boxes of old clothes no one wore anymore. There was always that chance that something could go wrong.

“Should be back tomorrow night,” Mickey said.

Ian didn’t say anything back, but he didn't have to.

“You want me to bring you back anything? Maybe one of those stupid novelty shirts?” Mickey grinned over at him, throwing a shirt and jeans in his duffle bag. "One of those _'My boyfriend went to Nashville and all I got was this stupid t-shirt'_ shirts?"

Ian just shook his head, still watching him carefully and silently. 

Mickey sighed, “Jesus Christ. Now’s the time to speak the fuck up if you don’t want me going.”

“Not gonna tell you what to do,” Ian replied. 

“Thought you were fine with this shit?”

Ian huffed a humorless laugh and leaned back in the armchair, “I said it came with the territory.”

Mickey rubbed a hand up and down his bare stomach and sighed again, long and drawn out. He didn't want to leave it like _this_ with Ian, didn't want to have this kind of conversation before a gun run like this. Like, god forbid, their last conversation would be full of resentment or some shit. It twisted him all up inside thinking like that. 

There were two _absolute_ _worst-case_ scenarios that could come out of this run: jail or death. That fact was like this heavy, brightly lit neon sign hanging above Mickey’s head.

In either worst-case scenario, he’d take everything away from his family —Lincoln Park, their new life and everything that came with it. Shit, thinking about that made it kind of hard to breathe. If something went wrong, he wouldn't have Ian anymore. Ian wouldn't have him. Ian could fucking spiral and who knows what would happen then. 

Maybe he shouldn't go. Iggy and Colin needed his backup but, still maybe he should just back out.

Mickey had been on so many runs —had been on runs, tagging along in the backseat with his brothers, since he was _six_. But all of a sudden he was questioning it. Was it fucking worth it? Was it really worth putting his family at risk, putting everything he had at risk? If Iggy needed the cash that fucking bad, he could just throw some his way.

“Hey,” Ian said, reaching out for Mickey, gently grabbing his hand and pulling him into his lap so Mickey had to straddle him. “It’s gonna be okay. _You’re_ gonna be okay. Ignore me, I’m worrying for nothing. You guys know what you’re doing.”

“I uh…” Mickey scrubbed at his face with the pads of his fingers, trying to pull his words out, “I dunno why I’m acting like a bitch about this.”

“You’re not,” Ian said. “What’s wrong, the run doesn’t feel right?”

Mickey shook his head, “No, the run feels fine. It’s just, you know, if it _doesn’t_ go well… I don’t, you know, I don’t wanna take all this shit away from you.”

“It’s just stuff,” Ian said, his hands spanning over Mickey’s thighs, fingers making soft, small circles on his skin, playing at the edge of his boxers. “I don’t give a fuck about stuff. I give a fuck about you, and you coming back home to me and Yev and Mandy, in one fucking piece. Fuck the rest of it. That shit doesn’t matter.”

“Okay but… say something happens to me—”

“Nothing’s gonna fucking happen to you, stop,” Ian’s eyes went hard.

Mickey shook his head, “It’s an eight hour drive with hot military-grade guns, to this group of fucking skinheads outside of Nashville. If something happens to me… are you… are you gonna…”

“Am I gonna be okay if something happens to you?” Ian asked, eyebrows raised high. “No. I’ll be the furthest thing from okay.”

He sighed, “I didn’t mean…”

“You talking about my bipolar?” Ian asked, brows creasing in confusion.

Mickey shrugged, “Yeah.”

He felt like an asshole about thinking any kind of “highly” of himself, but the thing was, it was no secret that Mickey was pretty much the only one who could get through to Ian, and give Ian what he needed, when he spiraled; the only one he’d listen to. It was just kind of a fact at this point.

The Gallagher’s tried, but… they had a bad habit of comparing him to Monica (step one of losing Ian’s cooperation). And they didn't understand that you couldn't fucking stand there and sweet-talk Ian into going to a doctor or take his meds, if he resisted (step two of losing Ian’s cooperation). As soon as he saw that happening, he shut down. Gone.

Ian had been fucked around with enough in his life that Mickey knew when Ian’s own siblings tried that sweet-talk-manipulation shit, he backpedaled and threw up those walls faster than anyone had ever fucking seen. It was almost like a trigger. 

So there was no sweet talk, no cajoling. If you tried, you’d see an entirely different side of Ian Gallagher. That sweet-face, warm Ian disconnected faster than you could blink, and you’d be left with self-destructive, indifferent, flippant —and depending on if he was up or down— resentful. He’d check out.

And it only got to that point a handful times, it wasn’t a never-ending cycling drama. But It was _always_ Mickey who figured out how to react and navigate during those times, finding that balance between _I’m not taking your bullshit today, no excuses_ and _I’ll be as patient as you need me to be, I love you, you’re so loved and important to me and our family_.

Ian took care of himself now, and gave a shit now; he  _accepted_ his reality now. But it was a fucking _battle_ getting him to that point, with fights and late nights of worrying and watching him spiral out of control, or not being able to get himself out of bed to take a shower or eat. Ian worked for this, he worked _hard_ for his health. And while he didn't "need" help anymore with his routines or keeping on track, he knew it was there if he did. He knew _Mickey_ was there, if he did.

“I don’t wanna think about something happening to you. I don’t wanna talk about this anymore,” Ian sighed, touching his forehead to Mickey’s. “You’re gonna go on this run and you’re gonna come home. And if this is how it’s gonna be every time you go on a run now… I think you should consider this being your last —it’s your choice though, I'm not gonna tell you what to do. But you have a son now. And it’s not juvie anymore, Mick. It’s prison.”

Mickey exhaled and dipped his head enough to kiss Ian, just a little soft brush of lips. Ian was right. He was a fucking dad now, trying to _not_ be like Terry. 

“Shit, I mean… if you gotta get your thug on every now and then, I’m sure Iggy’d be fucking thrilled to go beat on some meth heads with you. I know how you enjoy that,” Ian added with a grin. The grin faded away though a second later, “Just remember to call me as soon as the drop is over, okay?”

“I will, I promise.”

Mickey wrapped his arms around Ian’s neck, letting himself melt into him, feeling Ian’s arms a wrap around his waist and pull him close. Mickey breathed in Ian’s scent, pressing his face into the side of Ian’s neck, burying his fingers into his hair. He loved Ian’s hair. The way it felt between his fingers, the color, the smell… all of it.

They didn’t say anything for a while, but they didn't need to. They just stayed like that, Ian running his hands up and down Mickey’s bare back, holding him tightly. Mickey could have probably fallen asleep like that, he was so comfortable. Ian felt good.

“Been a long time since we haven’t slept in the same bed,” Ian murmured against Mickey’s shoulder.

Mickey grinned against Ian’s neck, “It’s one night.”

“I know,” Ian sighed, kissing at Mickey’s skin. “Still. You’re like a little heater, what if—”

“Ay,” Mickey pulled back, glaring at Ian. “You better knock that shit off. I am of _average_ fucking height, you sasquatch-ass motherfucker.”

Ian broke out one of those wicked mega-watt smiles, his hands curling around Mickey’s hips, “You speak so sweetly to me.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and dipped his head down to brush his lips against Ian’s, “So you’re gonna miss me while I’m gone for a whole twenty-four hours?”

“Maybe. You gotta leave soon?”

“In an hour,” Mickey sighed, “Iggy and Colin are making sure the van’s good to go.”

“And the van’s all legal?” Ian asked.

“Yeah, it’s clean.”

Ian nodded, tugging at Mickey’s hips, shifting so they pressed against each other even more. Mickey’s whole body tensed up sweetly as a little groan pulled from the back of his throat, feeling Ian harden under him. They’d been at it all day, drawing it out slow and touching every fucking inch of each other; Mickey tracing every dip, every plane of muscle, trying his damnedest to imprint those memories… just in case.

Mickey pressed his forehead to Ian’s again, rocking his hips down, making his boyfriend shudder under him, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Ian breathed before pressing his lips against Mickey’s. He gripped under Mickey’s thighs as he stood, picking him up and walking them to their bed. 

Mickey held on, kissing Ian hard before pulling back just enough to grunt, “I told you not to do this shit anymore.”

“Yeah I know, tough guy,” Ian laughed.

 

* * *

 

For the first two hours, Mickey’d been crammed in the back while Colin and Iggy bullshitted around with the radio and roped Mickey into a game of _who can talk the most shit_. At one point, they got in a _very_ heated debate about which Victoria Secret model was hotter. Mickey didn’t know any of their names, but he’d seen them on commercials and this blonde one was decent looking, so he went with her.

Admittedly, the debate was fucking _irrelevant_ and shouldn't have gotten as venomous and borderline violent as it did. But how else were Milkovich boys supposed to settle disputes, if they couldn't use intimidation to back-up their _well thought out_ points? 

Some time after that, Iggy started asking Mickey to pick between two random actors he thought of -who he'd fuck, if he could. Brad Pitt or Ben Affleck (Affleck, definitely Affleck); the Magic Mike guy or that _other_ Magic Mike guy (how Iggy knew who was in Magic Mike was beyond Mickey); Angel or Spike (who?). This went on for a solid twenty minutes. Mickey did more eye-rolling than he ever thought possible and refused to answer.

Then Mickey thought they were getting pulled over because fucking Colin was going twenty over the goddamn speed-limit. It had been a false alarm though, the cop blazed by them.

But now, five hours into the trip, Colin was crunched up in the back behind him and Iggy —passed the fuck out, asleep. Iggy, in the passenger seat, was much in the same state. 

While normally this wouldn't be a problem, Colin snoring sounded like a fucking freight train and Iggy mumbled in his sleep. Mickey was fucking exhausted, so everything was ten times more annoying than it probably really was.

Mickey felt his eyes getting heavier, his body relaxing back into the seat. Fucking around with Ian all day before a long night-drive maybe wasn’t the best idea in the whole world, now that he was starting to drift. All he needed was like ten minutes to rest his eyes.

He shook his head roughly and adjusted his posture, blinking his eyes a few times. Falling asleep at the wheel and crashing with all these fucking guns was not an option. Mickey gripped the wheel tightly and kept his eyes locked on the lit up road ahead of him, the trees passing in the dark, the taillights of the car probably a football field’s length away.

The worst thing about drifting off while driving was that sometimes you didn't even fucking realize you were sleeping. Mickey’s eyes fluttered closed again, for a second, enough to have him veer off a little to the right, before he snapped out of it.

“Shit,” he swore, pulling off to the shoulder of the road. He had to stretch his legs or something, this was just going to end up bad if he tried to power through.

“Fuck’re you doing?” Iggy yawned from the passenger seat.

Mickey opened the driver door and stepped out, shaking out one leg, then the other, “Falling asleep.”

“Make it quick,” Iggy sighed. "If we're late, someone's getting a bullet in their leg. Ain't gonna be me this time."

The air had a bite to it and it was eerily quiet. Mickey wasn’t a country-side kind of guy, he didn't revel in the great outdoors or appreciate the smell of fresh air as much as he probably should have. He liked the background noise of the city, kind of missed it. This was too fucking quiet for him.

He stretched out his back and arms and walked the length of the van a couple times, trying to wake up and focus, before climbing back inside and continuing on his way. Maybe he’d be able to find a gas station open or something, so he could grab an energy drink.

 

* * *

 

Mickey didn't bring his shoulder holster. He has his glock tucked into the waist of his jeans and his butterfly knife in his back pocket. They met the group of skinheads at this junky gas station with a body shop. It looked like it had been around since the fifties; middle of the night, off of this old beaten up road —it was quiet.

While Colin and Iggy unloaded the guns from the back of the van, Mickey stood with the skinheads, keeping his eyes focused on keeping track of where everyone was and what was around them. Pretty much your standard group of varying degrees of Terry Milkovich. Being around them made Mickey swell with this overwhelming urge to fucking puke all over the place, but he kept his face hard as steel.

“Drive was okay?” Jim, one of the guys, asked Mickey. He had large SS Bolts inked into the side of his neck, and was tatted up even more so than Terry, as far as Mickey could tell. 

Mickey nodded, “Nice and quiet.”

“Good to hear,” he nodded, folding his arms under his chest.

Another guy, David —who was much older than the first, and who was eyeing Mickey hard— nodded over, “You’re all Terry’s boys, right?”

Mickey felt his body heat up, hoped that it didn't show that panic was flickering to life in his gut. He kept his face passive —he had to, “Yeah.”

“When’s that son'bitch getting out?” David asked.

“Couple months,” Colin answered for Mickey, bringing out the last crate of guns with Iggy. “Coming up real soon.”

Mickey forced a look of something that he hoped to God passed off as happy, “Yeah, maybe we can get him to stick around for a little bit this time, you know?”

Jim and David, and the rest of the skinheads, chuckled and nodded in agreement. David speaking again, “I heard he wasn’t even out a day before getting thrown back in.”

Mickey just kept telling himself to breathe, kept telling himself that this old man was just making some small talk, it didn’t have to mean anything other than that. It didn't have to mean that David was looking for just the right time to out Mickey to all these guys, so they could beat him bloody -beat him to death. They didn't know shit. Right?

Fuck, he didn't want to be doing this shit. He didn't even care if that made him soft, this wasn’t a fucking joke —this was the goddamn lion’s den and he was the guy who, while bent over a cop car,  _very publicly_ screamed about getting plowed good and hard by his boyfriend. 

“Yeah. Four hours,” Mickey answered.

“What happened?” David raised a brow, looking carefully at Mickey. Maybe too carefully, Mickey was getting a little paranoid, he knew, but Jesus fucking Christ it looked like the guy was just casting the line, waiting for Mickey to take the bait.

There were six of these skinheads, every one of them packing heat —not one of them would hesitate to kill Mickey on the spot if they knew. There was no way they knew though, right? Terry wouldn't have been blabbing that shit all over the place, his son the faggot. No, it wasn’t possible.

But again, that didn't mean that _someone else_ hadn’t said something.

He felt this lump in his chest, this block in his throat. Mickey tried to talk himself down, tried to reassure himself that he was jumping to conclusions, making assumptions that word got out and that here… here in fucking _Tennessee_ , in this dumpy-ass garage, he was going to be beaten to death. 

Big ol’ ‘mo, who takes it and fucking likes it, Mickey. Dead.

Iggy, God bless Iggy, slung an arm over Mickey’s shoulders and laughed, “Shit, you know what happens at a Milkovich party. We can’t fucking help ourselves.”

Mickey breathed a laugh out of relief when the rest of the skinheads laughed with Iggy, saying as if it explained everything, “It was uh… my sons baptism.”

Evidently that’s all Mickey needed to say for an explanation, judging by the looks of understanding. Thank the fuck God. 

The rest of the transaction went by smooth. The guys checked the guns, counted them, made sure everything was there (there'd also been three big-ass bags of meth and a kilo of coke) and then handed over the money for Iggy's guy, and then the money for the transport. 

There was some small talk, but no one wanted to stand around for longer than they had to, and Mickey was so drained by the time that he slid into the back of the van, he fell asleep almost immediately. It was like it all came crashing down off of his shoulders. The van was clean now, the drop was over, he’d go to a gross hotel for the night and then tomorrow he’d be back home. And this was his _last_ fucking drop.

He was so fucking out of it and exhausted that Mickey didn't even remember being woken up to go into the hotel room. He wasn’t sure how long he was asleep for —it seemed like minutes— until Colin was shaking him awake, looking none-too-pleased about it.

“The fuck?” Mickey grunted, blinking his eyes open.

Colin shoved a phone into his hand, “For you.”

Stomach plummeting, Mickey hissed a curse, grabbed the room key off the night stand and scrambled outside. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Mickey sighed, pressing the phone to his ear, “I’m sorry. I’m okay, I’m sorry.”

“I’ve been calling you for the past two fucking hours, Mickey,” Ian’s voice bit through the other line. He was _damn_ pissed.

Mickey closed his eyes and leaned up against the outside of the room door, “Man, I passed the fuck out.”

“You promised you’d fucking call me as soon as it was done,” Ian reminded him.

Mickey sighed, “I know.”

There was silence on the other end of the line for a few moments. Mickey just stood there and let that silence melt over onto him, wishing he was with Ian, kind of needing Ian right now. Fuck though, he completely forgot about calling him. Shit.

“Everything go okay with the drop?”

“Yeah,” Mickey answered. “Thought it was gonna go bad, but it was fine.”

“What happened?” 

“Ah, you know… started asking fucking questions about my dad,” he breathed, running a hand over his hair. He yawned, “Thought I was gonna be looking at the business end of a tire iron again… and not good way.”

Ian snorted a laugh, “I know what you meant, but that sounded awful, just letting you know.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, “You’re disgusting.”

“So you’re safe?” Ian asked, “Everything’s okay?”

“Yeah,” Mickey replied. “Heading back sometime tomorrow. Probably gonna sleep in though.”

“Okay,” Ian sighed. “I'm fucking pissed, I thought you were fucking dead or something.”

Mickey exhaled and paced in front of the door, "I was fucking tired, man. Shoulda called, I know."

"Well," Ian paused; Mickey heard the sound of the sliding glass door open and shut, followed by Ian lighting up a cigarette. "You’re still on my shit-list."

“Oh yeah?” Mickey grinned.

“Definitely,” Ian said. Mickey could hear the grin in his voice though. “I’ll deal with you when you get home.”

Mickey snorted a laugh that time, “Okay tough guy. What, you gonna ground me?”

“Nope.”

Mickey tucked his lips between his teeth, eyes scanning around the parking lot of the hotel, eyebrow arched in interest, “What you got in mind?”

Ian didn't answer him though, “I’ll let you go back to sleep.”

Mickey’s shoulders fell but he grinned, “Alright.”

“Love you,” Ian said. He said it clear and honest and Mickey loved when he said it like that. Mickey said it back, wishing he was back home, in his own bed, with his boyfriend, in their apartment, comfortable and safe.

Yeah. This was definitely his last run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh oh Mickey's in troubleeee
> 
> This is probably unneeded, but just in case: it wasn't my intention to be like "Mickey keeps Ian's mental health in check" or infer that Mickey is the only reason that Ian takes care of himself. Ian is the reason for his own stability. Mickey is there for him when he needs a boost, you know... as a significant other/support system does.  
> I had a hard time with figuring out how to explain that in the chapter lol


	16. Crime & Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come with me,” Ian said, pulling on Mickey’s hand, leading him towards their bedroom. “Got something for you.”
> 
> “Uh oh,” Mickey chuckled, following his boyfriend. Ian lead him into their bathroom and Mickey couldn't help but roll his eyes and laugh at what was waiting for him, “No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content warning:** This chapter is Explicit.   
>  Its like 95% smut. All porn. Just a ridiculous amount of porn. Basically, I'm giving you an entire chapter that in no way aids in the progress of this story’s plot. Feel free to skip, if you want. But this is happening. Because Mickey is in so…. so much trouble.

It took Mickey and his brothers much longer to get back to Chicago than they had planned. Not only did they sleep in —like _really_ sleep in— but on their way back home, they stopped at sit-down restaurants to eat, taking their time. 

Yeah, Mickey might have been stalling, knowing that Ian was still pissed about him not calling. But it was also just kind of nice to hang out with his brothers all day and not have to worry about an arsenal of weaponry in the van.

So it was already dark by the time Mickey got home. As soon as Mickey walked through his apartment door, his face was grabbed and he was pushed up against the brick wall of the hallway. Ian kissed him, hands soft, lips even softer, almost painfully gentle to the point where Mickey couldn't do much but just hang his arms at his sides and take it, his duffle bag dropping to the floor. 

Ian pressed his body against Mickey’s and just… fucking… kissed him. And it was so good. And slow. Heavy with breath and silent, except for sighs and the soft sounds of their mouths working against each other. It took a minute for Mickey to get his bearings and wrap his arms around Ian’s neck, trying to deepen the kiss. 

But Ian didn’t let him deepen it too much, intent on working his mouth sweet and tender and creating a mess of butterflies in Mickey’s stomach. Kissing Ian completely wrecked Mickey. By the time Ian stepped away from him, Mickey was dazed and panting, his arms slowly falling back down to his sides. Ian brushed his lips against his again one last time, and then again, making Mickey exhale out a broken sigh.

“You already eat?” Ian murmured.

Mickey nodded, reaching for Ian’s hips, only to have his hands gently knocked away. He grinned up at the redhead, “Awh, come on, really?”

“Come with me,” Ian said, pulling on Mickey’s hand, leading him towards their bedroom. “Got something for you.”

“Uh oh,” Mickey chuckled, following his boyfriend. Ian lead him into their bathroom and Mickey couldn't help but roll his eyes and laugh at what was waiting for him, “No.”

Ian frowned at him, glancing between the filled up tub and Mickey, “Why not?”

“Because… I’m not a stressed-out soccer mom?”

“It’ll be nice,” Ian said, dipping his voice all soft and low while he worked the buckle of Mickey’s belt, “Plus, you owe me.”

Mickey pushed his tongue to the corner of his mouth while he watched Ian slip his belt from his jeans, discarding it to the floor of the bathroom. Next Ian peeled Mickey’s shirt off and proceeded to kiss and tongue at his shoulders and collarbone. It was nearly impossible to deny Ian anything when he did this shit, and the redhead knew that.

Eventually, they got into the tub. The water was hot and Mickey leaned back against Ian’s chest, not really knowing what to do other than just… _sit_. He knew Ian was pissed about him forgetting to call but this was… okay, it was kind of nice, if not a little weird. Just sitting in hot water, feeling Ian’s lips press against the side of his head every now and then. 

Ian was too calm. Too quiet. Too gentle.

“Yeah, no, I can’t relax like this,” Mickey sighed, turning his head to look back at Ian.

Ian grinned, “Why not?”

“Because you’re fucking up to something.”

“Why would I be up to something?” Ian arched a brow. “I thought this would be nice and relaxing for you, after your little trip.”

Mickey sighed, narrowing his eyes at his boyfriend before settling back against his chest again. No, this was off. Ian was luring him into a false sense of security or some shit.

“I mean, it must have been stressful,” Ian continued, reaching around to trail his long fingers across Mickey’s chest. “You know… not knowing if something would go wrong or not.”

Mickey gnawed on his bottom lip, sinking against Ian, watching his hand slip down his belly, rubbing at his skin softly. His body tightened in reaction to Ian’s soft touch, feeling warm breath on the side of his neck. Ian kissed his cheek and jaw, breathing hotly in his ear. Ian’s hand dipped lower, fingers grazing against Mickey’s erection.

“I’m sorry I forgot to call you,” Mickey breathed, gripping onto Ian’s thighs that caged him under the water.

“I was worried,” Ian kept his voice soft, hand curling around Mickey, stroking him.

Mickey clenched his eyes shut, letting out a labored breath, “I know.”

“Called you for two hours,” Ian continued, twisting and stroking just the way Mickey liked, just the way to make everything go all floaty and hard to focus. 

“I… I know,” Mickey gasped, pushing back against Ian, hips rocking upwards while he watched Ian get him off with his hand.

“Out of my fucking mind worried about you,” Ian bit down on the crook of Mickey’s neck.

“S-shit,” Mickey trembled under Ian’s touch.

“You wanna come?” Ian asked, biting again at Mickey’s skin.

Mickey couldn't take his eyes off of Ian’s hand working him. It was so good. Ian was so fucking good. “Yeah… gonna… fuck, gonna.”

“Come for me, then,” Ian rasped against Mickey’s ear.

“O-okay,” Mickey babbled, his body going white-hot, legs shaking under him as he gripped Ian’s thighs with a bruising force. “Fuck… yeah.. fuck —what the fuck!”

Just before Mickey was about to come, Ian drew his hand away.

Mickey, chest heaving, swiveled around to look at his boyfriend, eyebrows raised high because what the _fuck_ was that, “Are you fucking serious?”

“As a heart-attack. Much like the one I almost had last night,” Ian stated.

Oh shit.

 

* * *

 

There was something to be said about being at Ian Gallagher’s mercy. Mickey was so keyed up while he fell to his knees in front of Ian, completely in a daze. He put his hands on top of Ian’s knees, looking up at his boyfriend. Ian was sitting in the chair in their room, leaning forward, fisting the back of Mickey’s hair with one hand, his other curling gently around his throat.

Ian didn’t kiss him sweet that time. He kissed him hungrily, working his mouth slow and hard, biting at Mickey’s lips. Mickey took it, kissed him back, running his hands up and down Ian’s thighs, leaning forward into Ian’s grip around his throat. Fuck, it was good; his skin shuddered with goosebumps.

“Hands still,” Ian panted against Mickey’s mouth; Mickey complied. Ian leaned back against the back of the chair, releasing his holds on Mickey while he lounged back. 

Mickey licked his lips, not able to keep his eyes from roaming all around Ian’s naked body, his mouth watering at the sight. He caught Ian’s gaze, just staring up into those green eyes, doing his best to wait. 

Ian quirked an eyebrow up, dropping his eyes down quickly for a second in a silent direction.

Like a starving man, Mickey wasted no time in leaning forward to take Ian into his mouth, swallowing him down until he couldn't take any more. Feeling Ian’s fingers brush gently into his hair and hearing that soft sigh drop from his lips did things to his body; he bobbed his head slow, sucking a little harder, drawing out more of those sighs, turning them into drawn-out moans. 

Mickey liked getting on his knees for his boyfriend, he liked it a lot. He liked when Ian held the back of his head before running his fingers up and down the back of his neck. He liked having to relax his throat to accommodate Ian’s size, feeling his eyes prick and water as he tried not to gag. He barely gagged anymore, but sometimes when Ian fucked his mouth, he did. Mickey didn’t mind it though, he fucking loved it.

“Look at me,” Ian’s voice strained.

Mickey opened his eyes, looking straight into Ian’s, moving one hand to work what he couldn't fit into his mouth as he did so. 

When Ian ran his mouth, telling him how good he looked like that, how good he was at using his mouth on him, using his filthy words he liked to use, Mickey ached to touch himself. Ian’s words touched him at the base of his spine, spreading out over his entire body, but the only thing Mickey could do was keep sucking and licking, working Ian until he got what he wanted.

“So good, keep doing that,” Ian groaned, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His grip dropped from Mickey’s hair, arms bonelessly falling to his sides, hips rocking up into Mickey’s mouth and hold. “Fuck, Mick.”

Mickey felt a swell in his chest, knowing what he did to the redhead, how he could make him fall apart like that. He brought his other hand over, brushing his fingers over Ian’s perineum, cupping his balls while he continued to work him steadily.

Ian didn’t last much longer after that. Mickey’s mouth was messy and slick with precome and spit as he continued to swallow Ian down; he felt hands fist back into his hair, hearing almost painful sounding gasps and moans being ripped from the redhead. 

Then finally, with a strangled moan, Ian fell over the edge, buried deep into Mickey’s throat. Mickey groaned around Ian, swallowing him down, loving the taste and how Ian’s hips jerked and how his hands slowly let go of his hair.

Mickey was panting as he slipped Ian from his mouth and leaned back. His body hummed and craved to be touched, to have Ian’s mouth on him, his hands —anything really, at that point, Mickey was so twisted up inside, he’s settle for making out for a little while.

Ian’s eyes were dark with want as he reached out for Mickey, “Come here.”

He rose on shaky legs, straddling Ian’s lap. Their bodies pressed together tightly as Ian hooked an arm around his waist, pulling him forward. Mickey took a breath, leaning forward, wanting to kiss Ian, but Ian leaned back with a grin.

“Come on,” Mickey breathed, his own grin pulling at his lips.

Ian didn’t say anything, just reached over to the little table by the chair and picked up the tube that rested there. Mickey watched him with heavy-lidded eyes, wetting his lips in anticipation.

“Keep your hands behind your back,” Ian said, squirting a little bit of lube into his hand.

Mickey arched a brow, but did as he was told, “Why do I have the feeling you’re gonna fuck me up real bad?”

Ian huffed a laugh, his eyes glittering as he wrapped his hand around Mickey’s erection; Mickey’s hips jerked into his hold, a heavy pant escaping his lips. 

“Like that?” Ian asked, moving his hand easily up and down Mickey’s length. 

“Fuck yeah,” Mickey nodded, pressing his forehead against Ian’s as he watched. It was so good, Ian twisting up him and gliding down. His body tingled and pulsed with every stroke.

Ian held the back of Mickey’s neck with his other hand, his hand gripping a little tighter, drawing out the strokes with longer, firmer strokes, thumb swiping over Mickey’s tip. Everything went a little blurry at the edges. Mickey gripped onto his forearms tightly behind his back, steeling himself from moving them.

He was so tense already from making Ian come, from the anticipation, everything was just coming to a head. He wasn’t going to last, he could feel it churning and buzzing inside, the need to come.

“You wanna come?” Ian asked hotly, squeezing the back of Mickey’s neck.

“Yes,” Mickey panted, rocking his hips into Ian’s hand. His movements were shaky and desperate, a fire catching deep in his belly. “Imma… fuck, gonna…”

“Yeah?” Ian twisted his stroke upwards. “Go on.”

Mickey dropped his head, pressing his forehead into the crook of Ian’s neck, arms coming forward so he could hold onto the back of the chair. With a low moan, he thrust into his boyfriends hand, letting himself go.

But Ian squeezed the base of his cock, stopping him from coming. He really should have seen it playing out like that, but it still came as a shock.

“Fuck!” Mickey ground out, hips stuttering and breath catching in his throat. He'd lost control of his mouth, slurring out, “Fuck you, fuck you... god _damnit_... _shit_... fuck you.”

Ian’s chest rumbled when he let out a breathy laugh, his free arm wrapping around Mickey’s waist, keeping him still. He peppered kisses over Mickey’s shoulder, hand rubbing up and down his spine.

This happened twice more, Ian edging Mickey up to that point of no return, just to halt him from coming. Mickey shook and punched out frustrated groans, cursing at Ian in more ways than he thought he knew how. (Mickey could bitch all day about being edged like this, but the truth was… he fucking loved it. This was _hardly_ a punishment.)

“How’re you doing?” Ian asked, his voice soft.

“Good,” Mickey nodded, body slowly starting to calm back to a reasonable state of h _oly fucking shit I’m about to die if I don’t come right now_.

Just as Mickey started to level out, Ian was at it again. Mickey groaned loud into Ian’s shoulder; he was so sensitive and aching, making a complete mess between his and Ian’s bodies. All he wanted, probably more than air at that point, was to come.

He heard the top of the lube crack open then close. He knew it was coming, but he was hardly able to handle feeling Ian’s free arm reach around behind him, his slicked up fingers slowly and teasingly working him open.

“Ah fuck,” Mickey gasped out, his body going all blurry and tingly again. He moved his hips, fucking into Ian’s hand and onto his fingers. He felt a single drop of sweat roll down his back, making him shiver. 

Blindly, Mickey reached between him and Ian, wrapping his hand around Ian. It was _almost_ painful, how hard Mickey was, how much he wanted to come. If he could distract himself, focus on making Ian feel good, he could calm down.

“Put your hands back where they were,” Ian breathed with a grin.

Mickey could barely think. He bumped his mouth against Ian’s, sloppily kissing him, his words slurring, “Wanna make you feel good.”

“You will,” Ian promised, nipping at Mickey’s jaw.

Ian sunk his fingers inside of Mickey, moving them until a jolt of pleasure rang through him. Mickey gripped the back of the chair hard, pushing his forehead to Ian’s again, barely able to catch his breath. Toes curling from getting jacked off and fingered at the same time, Mickey was about to break apart again. He wanted Ian inside of him, fucking him, bruising his hips, giving it to him good and hard. The thought made Mickey’s mouth water, made him whine.

“You wanna come so bad, I can feel it,” Ian murmured into Mickey’s mouth. “So hard it hurts, huh Mick?”

The only word that Mickey could string together was a weak, “Please.”

Ian pressed up against Mickey’s prostate again and held the base of his cock tightly as he worked that magic little spot inside of him. Mickey was a fucking mess, feeling himself drift into some kind of fucking headspace, just falling and melting into Ian’s body, his hips rocking slowly, arms wrapping around his boyfriends shoulders.

“How you doing, Mick?” Ian asked, his voice soft, still working that spot.

Mickey shuddered, his body on fire and being shocked all over, “M’good. Wanna come.”

“Okay, you have two choices. You listening?” Ian asked; he tongued and bit at Mickey’s neck while he waited for a response.

Mickey nodded, idly reaching up to run his fingers into Ian’s hair.

Ian mouthed at his neck more, fingers still not relenting on Mickey’s prostate, their torture slow but firm. Mickey swore he saw stars behind his closed eyes, wishing Ian would go back to jerking him off too, so he could come.

“You want me to fuck you?” Ian asked, teeth grazing over Mickey’s skin as his hand finally stroked his cock again —only twice, but it got Mickey shuddering and whining.

“Yes,” Mickey gasped. Jesus fucking Christ, how was that even a fucking question that needed to be asked right now?

Ian made an appreciative sound, sitting up a little straighter in the chair, his fingers slipping from Mickey’s body. “So you wanna come now or when I’m fucking you?”

He must have been further gone than he thought, because instead of giving his answer, all that came out was, “You pick.”

A wolfish grin spread across Ian’s mouth, his hand back to stroking Mickey, “Then you’re not gonna come till I say you do, understand?”

Mickey took deep breaths, holding onto the arms of the chair. He nodded.

“Lube,” Ian said.

With shaky hands, Mickey reached for the tube and went to work, not having to be further directed. He slicked Ian up, taking his time to stroke slowly. How Ian had managed to keep his composure this whole time, Mickey had no fucking clue. They guy was leaking precome across his belly and was hard as a fucking rock.

“Okay,” Ian panted, leaning back in the chair.

Mickey was not exactly in a riding kind of mood, but fuck if he was going to start complaining about it. The need to come trumped his position preference right now. He moved and shifted until he could sink onto Ian, both of them punching out moans and short breaths as he did. He felt so fucking full when Ian finally bottomed out; he could barely breathe, legs trembling under him, Mickey grabbed onto Ian’s shoulders and started moving.

Ian’s hands were everywhere, rubbing at Mickey’s thighs and around to grab onto his ass, squeezing two handfuls as he bucked up into him. Mickey couldn't stop the sounds dropping from his mouth, finally having Ian inside of him, brushing up against his prostate, hands grabbing at him, it was fucking heaven. 

But Mickey wasn’t moving as fast as he wanted to, wasn’t going as hard as he needed. His legs were like jelly at this point and he was so fucking strung-out from Ian edging him, that while riding Ian felt fucking good, it wasn't getting him where he wanted to be. 

“Fuck,” Mickey grunted, hands curling painfully around the arms of the chair, moving a little faster, hips rocking while he raised and lowered himself onto Ian. 

It was frustrating because he was normally pretty fucking good at riding, but now he was looking like he’d never been on top of a dick in his life and it was _not_ sexy. It was killing his mood. This was a mess at this point.

Ian grinned up at him, breathing hard, “How’s it going, cowboy?”

“Fuck off,” Mickey snapped. “Can’t fucking… I wanna… I… this isn’t…” the more Mickey rattled on, the more flustered he became, ignoring the strain in his legs as he quickened his pace, slamming down onto Ian.

Ian gripped his hips hard and let out a harsh groan, “ _Fuck_ , Mickey.”

Mickey closed his eyes hard and felt his body tense up, right at the edge of needing to come, right there, but not able to touch it. He wrapped a hand around his own cock and started stroking, his hips stuttering, thighs burning under him. He needed to come so bad, but couldn't fucking reach it.

“Okay,” Ian panted, wrapping his arms around Mickey’s waist, lifting until he slid out of him, so Mickey was back to just sitting in Ian’s lap.

“The fuck,” Mickey’s eyes went wide. Was he for fucking real right now?

The redhead just smirked, carefully standing up, taking Mickey with him. Mickey breathed a sigh of relief, holding onto his boyfriend while he took a few steps towards the bed, and grinned when Ian all but threw him down onto it.

In a matter of seconds, Ian was on top of Mickey, pinning his hands down to the mattress while Mickey wrapped his legs around Ian’s waist. Ian kissed him hard, pressing his body against Mickey’s tightly, tasting the inside of his mouth and Mickey was fucking gone again, getting lost in Ian’s kiss, the way he moved his lips and held him down.

For only a moment, Ian let go of one of Mickey’s hands, reaching down between them to guide himself back into Mickey. He pushed all the way in, in one go. Mickey turned his head, ripping his mouth away from Ian’s to let out a strangled, slightly inhuman-sounding noise.

Ian was frantic above him, his mouth dropping to the crook of Mickey’s neck, biting and licking and sucking. Mickey knew he’d have marks all over his skin, but he didn’t fucking care because this, _this_ was what he needed.

“Open your eyes and — _fuck_ — look straight in front of you,” Ian moaned against Mickey’s neck.

Mickey did, seeing that they were positioned across from the closet mirror. With an open mouth, Mickey watched as Ian plowed into him, both of their bodies holding a sheen of sweat, both of them flushed and sliding against each other fucking beautifully. It was so hot. It was so fucking hot, Ian looked so fucking good. It was making everything more intense, making his body flood and buzz with that need for release.

“Jesus — _fuck_ ,” Mickey grunted, watching Ian slide his hands from his own hands to his hips, where his grip was brutal.

Ian punched out a strangled chuckle, turning his head so he could see too, “Look at how fucking hot you are. God, you take it so fucking good, Mick -look how good you take it.”

Mickey moaned out a noise, his eyes focused on Ian’s reflection, “I’m gonna… fuck, gonna come.”

“Not yet,” Ian panted, his pace slowing down. “Just wait, okay? Gonna make it so good for you, baby, promise. Can you wait a little longer for me?”

He clenched his eyes shut, wrapping his arms around Ian’s neck, “Fucking… dying.”

“I know,” Ian murmured against his jaw, licking and biting at his skin, his hips rocking slow and deep, hitting Mickey’s prostate every other thrust. “I know, but you’re doing so fucking good. So good for me.”

Ian’s pace picked back up, this time hitting Mickey’s prostate nearly every time. It was impossible to breathe properly, he felt so full and overwhelmed with everything that was happening. Ian was running his mouth again between biting and sucking at his skin, his arms hooking under Mickey’s knees, pulling them up a little. 

The things Mickey let Ian do to his body... it amazed him. It was so good though, even when he was frustrated and on the verge of coming on his own terms, _because obviously the end goal for tonight was to give Mickey a fucking stroke_ , he followed Ian's lead, letting the redhead do all the thinking.

It hit him like a fucking monsoon, the need for release tearing him open. Mickey gasped hard and his body arched and bowed under Ian.

“Ian, I can’t… I’m gonna,” Mickey stammered, unable to open his eyes. It was happening, he couldn't hold it back for Ian anymore.

Ian dropped one of his knees, his hand wrapping tightly around the base of Mickey’s cock as he pushed harder into him, “Jesus, Mickey... feel so good. Tell me… tell me how much you — _fuck_ — much you want it.”

Mickey clawed at Ian’s back, being denied release yet again, it was fucking with him to the point of near insanity. “ _PleasefuckIanIwannacomesobad_ ,” he rushed out, pressing his face into the crook of Ian’s neck, “I’ll do whatever you —fuck— whatever you want, please babe, I gotta come, I can’t… I can’t fucking take it anymore. Fuck!”

Ian dropped his other knee and curled his hand around Mickey’s throat, squeezing just enough for everything to go all floaty. He pistoned into him a few more times until Mickey was thinking he was _actually_ near death, his body screaming for release.

“Come for me, Mickey,” Ian ground out, releasing the hold he had on Mickey’s cock.

Mickey thought that maybe he blacked out. It was so overwhelming, crashing onto him all at once, his body straining, aching, tensing up in one moment of pure fucking ecstasy. 

One minute, he was shaking and yelling something, spilling between himself and Ian. The next minute, Ian was kissing his throat and chest gently while his hands skimmed all over his body. He murmured these little sweet words and Mickey couldn't really focus on any of them. 

His chest heaved deeply with his every breath as he stared up at the ceiling of their bedroom. He was pretty sure he’d lost every single one of the bones in his body, like everything had just turned to jelly at that point. His mouth hung open, but the only thing that came out was breath.

“You okay?” Ian’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“Mmhm,” Mickey grunted in response, blinking up at the ceiling. His body was slowly coming back down, legs and hips trembling every minute or so. There were no thoughts; he felt very _quiet_ inside. His eyes drooped closed, body relaxing into the mattress.

Ian settled up against his side, running a hand up and down his belly and chest, lips pressing against his shoulder. Ian said something, but Mickey didn’t hear. They were quiet for a while, Ian finally getting Mickey to move and slip under the covers.

Mickey laid his head on Ian’s shoulder, starting to fall asleep to the feel of his boyfriends lips being pressed to the top of his head; Ian just laid like that with him, mouth and nose buried in the top of Mickey’s hair, breathing him in. Mickey liked that. It felt good. He felt good. He couldn't remember the last time his body relaxed so fucking much like this. He fucking needed this.

“Sorry I made yo worry,” Mickey mumbled, unable to open his eyes. He tightened his grip around Ian a little and rubbed his cheek against the redhead’s shoulder. “Ain’t doing anymore runs.”

Ian exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath for days, “Really?”

Mickey nodded, “Yeah. Done with that shit.”

Ian slid down, turning and wrapping his arms around Mickey, pressing their chests together as he kissed Mickey’s lips. It wasn’t a heated kiss, full of teeth and tongue; it was gentle, slow like before, when Mickey first came home. 

He didn’t have much energy left in his body, but Mickey kissed Ian back, using what little strength he had to tighten his hold around Ian’s torso. They kissed for a long time like that, until Ian buried his face into Mickey’s chest, both of them falling asleep. 

It was fucking good to be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told ya.
> 
> Okay, now we can get back to your not-so-regularly scheduled programming.


	17. The Red Rooms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Discussing rape/abuse.
> 
> This is a disgustingly pathetic excuse for an update (so short), but I felt like I had to give you guys _something_ , you know? lol  
> As short as it is, important things are happening. So, I mean... yeah.

Mickey woke up with his hands reaching out for warm skin, but only found empty sheets. He frowned, peeking out from the top of the covers to an equally empty room; he slips out of bed and pulls on the sweatpants that he left on the floor, padding to the bathroom. The room is filled with that warm, wet shower smell and Mickey breathes it in.

He goes about his morning routine —toilet, brush teeth, quick shower, all that. Mickey doesn't bother putting on anything other than a clean pair of boxers though, he’s got time. When he opens his bedroom door, he’s hit with the smell of coffee and it’s so good and welcome.

Mandy’s voice is filtering through the quiet apartment, “Yes, I understand but Mr. Foss needs the paperwork by twelve…” she paused, nodding a greeting in Mickey’s direction. “Because like I said, _sir_ , he’s getting on a flight at one — _excuse me!?_ ”

Mickey smirks as he watches his sister storm out to the patio, going fucking ape-shit on the idiot on the other end of the line. This was a common occurrence in the morning. Mandy didn't really have a ton of patience for businessmen who underestimate her. She’s kind of a bulldog. It’s kind of awesome.

“Ay,” Mickey strolls into the kitchen, where Ian is shoving what looks like leaves into a blender, “What’s that?”

“Kale,” Ian replies, distracted with his task. “And pineapple… and a banana… and almond milk.”

Gross. Mickey pulls a face and pours himself a cup of coffee, “The fuck is kale?”

“I think it’s like a cabbage,” Ian replies. “It’s a super food —really good for you. Vitamins, fiber, minerals, antioxidants, all that shit. This girl I work with, Jill, she drinks this every morning for breakfast, says she’s never felt better. You want me to make you one?”

“I’m good, thanks,” he smirks.

Mickey watches as the redhead rolls his shoulder a couple times before turning the blender on. He chews on his lip, setting his coffee cup down on the counter before going to Ian, reaching for his hip, slipping his fingers under his boyfriend’s shirt to touch the warm skin of his side.

“Shoulder bothering you?” he asks.

“Slept on it weird,” Ian says, eyes focused on the green contents of the blender. But then he stops the blender and swivels his eyes to look at Mickey, a wicked grin pulling on the corner of his mouth, “And I had a kind of active night last night, so…”

Mickey rolls his eyes and wraps his arms around Ian’s waist, tilting his head up, “Lay one on me before you drink that nasty shit.”

Ian laughs, dropping a kiss to Mickey’s lips.

 

* * *

 

Mickey couldn't watch the entire recording of Schulz in the brothel. He just couldn't do it. So, after a brief conversation about how to handle the situation, Mickey and Angela thought it best that Angela go with him to talk to Schulz’s wife. The whole thing was going to be awkward as hell anyway and the chances of Mrs. Schulz letting him inside the house was pretty fucking low. 

Some random dude knocking on your door in the middle of the day with FUCK U-UP tattooed across his knuckles? Yeah, Mickey wouldn't blame anyone for not trusting that off the bat. So Angela tagged along to soften the edges. She was good with people anyways. 

The house was huge; the picture in Schulz’s office didn't do it justice at all. Mrs. Schulz drove a silver Lexus SUV, which was parked in the driveway. James’ S-Class wasn’t there, obviously, since he was at work.

Mrs. Schulz — _Laura_ — was very cordial when she answered the door, if not a little suspicious (who wouldn't be). She was one of those women who wore cardigans and pearls and a modest gold chain with a cross. And here Mickey and Angela were, ready to fuck up her entire life. Mickey tried to ignore that, because Laura had the right to know. But the truth was that he was about to drop a fucking bomb right in the middle of this woman’s life -her _family_.

Angela did her thing, sweet-talking their way in while still making it clear that they had something serious to discuss. Mickey kept his hands shoved in his pockets, trying to keep his face as passive as possible, even though he was very aware that his _passive_ look came off as hard or irritated sometimes... it was just his face. They managed to make it into the living room, accepting cups of coffee. Mickey was afraid to move an inch from where he sat on the couch. It looked like the Schulz’s paid good fucking money to have this place decorated.

“Is everything okay? Is James in some kind of trouble?” Laura asks, folding her hands in her lap. She’s frowning, obviously confused and worried, probably even a little nervous from strangers asking to speak with her about her husband.

“Well…” Angela started, delicately. She fiddled with the strap of her purse, glancing over at Mickey before continuing, “Mrs. Schulz, you see—”

“Your husband is not who you think he is,” Mickey cut in.

Laura frowned, “What are you thinking about?”

“I had a uh… meeting with him a little while ago about an incident with,” Mickey paused looking over at Angela for help. He didn't exactly want to come out and say it —with one of his _girls_ , one of his _sex workers_ …

But Angela just shrugged, “Go ahead.”

Mickey raised his eyebrows and looked back over at Laura. “We run a business,” he told her. “High dollar escorts. Your husband was a client for a long time.”

Laura’s face fell, her eyes closing as she took a deep breath, “If you’re here to tell me that my husband is not faithful, I can assure you it’s not as shocking as you might think it is.”

“That’s not what we’re here to tell you,” Mickey said. “We’re here to let you know that your husband has a problem. Putting his hands on girls… assulting girls.”

A small, disbelieving laugh punched out of Laura. She pushed a piece of light brown hair out of her face and shook her head, “No.”

“Yes, Mrs. Schulz,” Mickey told her. “He raped one of my girls, and I told him that if I ever found out he ever did that shit again, I would be talking to you. He did it again, except at a different business, so here I am.”

“My husband is not a… a _rapist_ ,” Laura lowered her voice, keeping the last word just above a whisper. “We’ve been together since high school, I would know. You’re wrong.”

Angela pulled the flash drive from her purse and set it on the coffee table, sliding it over towards Laura, “This is security footage from a brothel. Last week your husband went to this brothel, paid two grand for a girl, and then raped her. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Schulz.”

The timing of James Schulz coming home unexpectedly for lunch was fucking _amazing_. Mickey wished that he had a camera for the look on the motherfuckers face when he walking into the living room. The smile dropped; shoulders tensed up, eyes widened when they landed on Mickey and Angela sitting across from his wife. It was fucking perfect.

Schulz sputtered stupidly while he went white as a ghost, “What… I —what are you —my — _what are you doing in my fucking house!?_ ”

Angela and Mickey exchanged a look; Laura frowned, glancing down at the flash drive that was still sitting on the coffee table.

“I’m calling the fucking police!” Schulz finally got his bearings, face turning from stark white to red. He fumbled through his jacket pockets while looking for his cell phone, eyes glaring harshly at Mickey. “Whatever the told you, honey… it’s a _lie_. Don’t fucking listen to them!”

James continued rambling like a madman while he frantically looked for his phone —mostly about how Angela and Mickey were both full of shit and harassing him and nothing that they said could be trusted. It was a little jarring to watch, to be honest.

“We have you on tape, James,” Angela drawled. “Footage from last week at The Red Rooms.”

Schulz froze, eyes immediately locking on his wife’s face.

Mickey sighed heavily and looked over at Laura. Her eyes were reddening around the rim, mouth hanging open just a little. He could see it all over her face—that question… was her husband a rapist? Were these strangers that she let inside her house telling her the truth?

“James?” Laura finally said, her voice soft.

Mickey got up from the couch, walking over to Schulz. He put a firm hand on the guy’s shoulder and snarled a not-really-a-smile kind of smile. He led Schulz into the hallway, so Laura wouldn't have to see this, “I _told_ you this would happen if you fucked up again. You think I was bullshitting you?”

Schulz didn't say anything, but there was so much fucking hate and anger in his eyes, it rolled off of him in heavy waves.

“You raped that girl—”

“I did _not_ rape that girl. I want you and that _whore_ out of my house!”

Mickey saw red as he got in Schulz’s face, pushing the older man against the hallway wall, “Talk about her like that again, and I’ll cut your fucking dick off and shove it down your throat.”

Schulz swallowed hard, his eyes darting away from Mickey, looking like a beaten down dog, “At The Red Rooms… it wasn’t what it looked like—”

“You smacked her around; pulled her hair like a pathetic little bitch that you are,” Mickey rubbed at his bottom lip, angry heat ripping up his back, “Don’t you shake your fucking head. Then you tied her up while she was crying and yelling _no_ … and I didn’t watch the rest of it, but we both know what happened next. I’m gonna make damn sure your whole fucking world gets blown the fuck up, asshole. Gonna make sure you’re left with _nothing_.”

Predictably, Schulz turned on Mickey, gaining some kind of self-righteous _trying to be the big dog_ persona. Rich white guys who used to be geeky losers in high school did that —it never worked and was always fucking awkward as hell. Schulz puffed out his chest and looked Mickey in the eyes.

“You have no idea what you’ve just stepped into,” Schulz hissed. “You’re gonna take me down and ruin my life? You’re going down with me.”

Mickey huffed a laugh, “You ain’t shit, and you’re not gonna do shit. Bend over, motherfucker, it’s your turn now.”

It was a particularly bittersweet situation. Schulz wouldn't go to the cops and turn Mickey and Angela in because the guy knew as soon as he did that, that little tape would pop up and he’d nail himself for his crime. Then also in turning in Suited, he’d start bringing all his high-power buddies down with him. Not a good ending for James Schulz.

However, the same went for Angela and Mickey… they wouldn't go to the cops about what Schulz did because then it would bring too much attention to Suited. People sniffing around, and all that shit. Ideally, this fucker would go straight to prison. But that was a different game. Mickey didn't mind playing this game. He preferred it. Men like James Schulz got out of a lot of trouble with a thick enough wallet. This way, they were on somewhat of an even field.

“You’re going to regret this,” Schulz snarled.

Mickey rolled his eyes, taking a step back, “Not as much as you’re going to after your wife watches that tape and leaves your sorry ass. And I got every girl in this goddamn city remembering your face _and_ your name. I’d watch my back, if I were you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to point out the obvious plot-hole or whatever you want to call it, here, because I'm very much aware of: _How do Mickey and Angela know that Laura Schulz won't go to the cops._ And I can't even really think of a way to get around this without saying 'they don't know that but they do know that she won't go because... this is my story and that's the way things are working out' lmao?
> 
> A slight mess, but an update with some important developments. *shrugs*
> 
> Oh, also idk if I have to explain this, but before anyone questions it, or theres a loss in communication... Mickey saying "Bend over, motherfucker, it’s your turn now" does not mean what it sounds like. He's talking about life in general is going to (pardon the expression) rape him. He's getting fucked. In life. lol sorry, I just saw that last minute and was like 'hmm.. maybe I should clear that up just in case'.


	18. The Unexpected and Expected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then a hand squeezes his shoulder and a rough voice behind him says, “I hear you got a little sugar in your tank.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After searching for years and years, I found this, etched in stone, covered in dust and vines and blood, under a hidden temple in the thick forests of Cambodia, I give you... chapter eighteen.

Mickey checked his phone for the time, seeing about five minutes had passed since he stepped into Angela’s office. Angela looked at him, brows raised, hand poised above her office phone, waiting for his cue.

“Okay,” Mickey nodded, reaching for the receiver while she dialed. He cleared his throat, leaning against the edge of her desk, eyes rolling when she straightened up a little, looking too much like Yev when he wanted in on a phone call too. “Come on, hurry up.”

Angela smiled wide and settled next to him, pressing the side of her head to his as they shared the earpiece. Still no answer. He was starting to wonder if he was going to get the voicemail —which would not put him in a good mood.

“You smell nice,” Angela whispered, leaning closer to sniff him.

Mickey pulled a face, leaning away, “Would you fucking—”

“Hello? Mr. Milkovich’s office,” Carl’s voice answered finally.

Mickey cleared his voice again and dropped down to a lower tone than his own, “Is this Mr. Milkovich?” He shot Angela a look when she pulled away and covered her mouth with her hand, obviously trying not to laugh.

“Uh,” Carl paused, “Yeah, yeah this is Mickey. Who’s this?”

Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. Not exactly what he was looking for, but okay, he could work with this. “My name is Malcolm… uh, Reynolds,” he blurted, looking over at Angela, who was smacking her palm against her forehead.

Carl snorted a laugh, “Okay _Malcolm Reynolds_ , what can I do for you?”

“I heard you’ve got the best match-making business in Chicago,” Mickey said. “Looking to take a girl out for the night, know what I mean?”

“Alright, just gimme a sec.” 

Mickey heard some rustling noises on the other end, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure out what the hell the kid was doing. There wasn’t anything to look through or write down, all he had to do was fucking type shit. Fuck, he was probably going through all Mickey’s shit. Great. Fucking annoying ass Gallagher’s.

“What kind of girl you looking for?” Carl continued.

“Mm,” Mickey hummed, “Redhead.” Angela hit her shoulder against his, but kept listening. “Doesn’t mind being a little, you know, _manhandled_.” 

There was a pause, where it was weirdly quiet on the other end of the line, before Carl answered, “How manhandled are we talking here, man?”

Mickey, happy with the kid’s steady but cautious tone, nodded to himself, “Ah, you now, a girl that don’t mind being tied up. What’s that called… submissive? That shit.”

Another pause, a clicking of a pen while Carl thought about Mickey’s words, “You wanna tie one of _my_ girls up, it’s gonna cost you, man. We gotta negotiate this and lay out some rules.”

“How much we talking?” Mickey tried to sound put-off, hoping that Carl would go about this the way that Mickey taught him.

“First of all,” Carl began, “Gotta see if you pass the background check, okay? Then if all that goes well, I’m gonna need one of my guys standing on the other side of the hotel door.”

Mickey and Angela nodded in approval, but Mickey said, “Are you fucking kidding me? I don’t want some mouth-breather thug listening in on that!”

“Hey man, that’s how it is. You wanna tie my girl up, gotta play by my rules.”

“And how much is this gonna cost me?”

“Round about four grand,” Carl answered.

“Four grand?” Mickey repeated, exchanging a look with Angela.

“Yep,” the kid sighed.

Mickey dropped the fake voice, “Ay, you sure it ain’t five?”

There was another long pause and Mickey had to tuck his lips between his teeth to keep from laughing. But instead of coming coming back on the line, Angela’s office door swung open to reveal a very annoyed looking Carl Gallagher.

“Seriously? Again?” 

“Seriously again?” Mickey repeated, brows arched high, “Fuck yeah _seriously again_ , till you can get those fucking numbers down.”

Carl exhaled roughly, “There’s so many though.”

“Tie up, five up,” Angela reminded Carl. “You’ll get it, it takes some time, but you’re doing good,” she nudged Mickey with her elbow, “Right?”

He nodded, “Yeah.”

Carl grinned a little at that, “I’ll get it down, Mick, I promise.”

“I know,” Mickey said. “You can go home now, if you want. We gotta head out soon.”

“Get that brothel life on,” Angela laughed.

Tonight was the first night of the five-day-long, essentially, pop-up brothel. Mickey wasn’t sure what to expect. All the guys checked out fine, and everything was good to go. Angela took care of most of the scheduling and little necessities for the retreat. Like the caterer and shit like that —stuff that was way over Mickey’s head.

He was trying to push down this heavy weight in his chest about tonight. He got Iggy and Colin to agree to help out with security, but he was still worried about the girls. That was a lot of guys, looking to get a lot of pussy, and Mickey wasn’t sure how they’d act around his girls. Everything was just a little stressful.

“You sure you don’t need my help?” Carl asked, completely unable to hide the hope in his voice.

Mickey and Angela exchanged grins, “We’re good, man.” He told the kid. “Besides, you got school tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Carl waved off.

 

* * *

 

Mickey feels like he’s been dropped in the middle of a Godfather movie. The house that Charlie found them is… ridiculous. It’s fucking huge; dark wood everywhere, heavy furniture, paintings covering the walls. He has no idea how many bedrooms there actually are —all he knows is it’s got this room that Angela calls a _salon_ (which Mickey doesn’t think is right, because no one’s getting their fucking hair done and it doesn't smell like bleach). But whatever.

He can’t really think of the last time he was in the middle of so many women wearing so little clothing. The Rub and Tug was different. Here, there’s expensive lace and frills and sheer lingerie just barely covering the girls. And it’s… a lot. Just _a lot_. 

He knows for a fact that if he were into it, this situation would be fucking _embarrassing_ right about now. And he only knows this because his brothers have been shifting from foot to foot for the past half hour, trying to keep their eyesight at what Angela called a “respectful height”. They haven’t been succeeding, really. But the effort is definitely there. Kind of.  Mickey’s brother’s are just _very_ into breasts and it’s difficult or them to concentrate. Maybe having them on security wasn't the _brightest_ idea he’s ever had.

It’s only then, at the beginning of this five day brothel experience for stuffy CEO’s, does Mickey fully acknowledge how fucking scary his girls can be. Because it’s not at all how he was picturing it would be.

All the clients and all the girls were gathered in the 'salon' —drinks and hors d’oeuvres being served by a couple waiters (who have signed contracts to keep their mouths shut). Mickey watches by the bar, everyone is meeting each other for the first time and he swore on his _life_ that he thought he’d be looking at a feeding frenzy. 

But that wasn’t the case. 

The girls giggle and touch their hair and sit on laps, holding champagne flutes to lips, getting their johns tipsy and pliable (but not too drunk, they’re careful of this). And the businessmen eat it up, they fawn over them and compliment them and use surprisingly _gentle_ hands on their thighs and arms and waists. 

Shit, he’s not complaining in the least, it’s actually a nice fucking surprise, but still… not what he was expecting at all. He feels oddly relaxed. So he decides _fuck it_ and pours himself a scotch from one of those fancy crystal decanters while he waits for Ian to get there.

Then a hand squeezes his shoulder and a rough voice behind him says, “I hear you got a little sugar in your tank.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot straight up as he feels his whole body tense, ready to knock someone’s teeth out. “The _fuck_ did you just-”

He turns around and it’s his stupid fucking boyfriend, an evil grin cracked over his dumb mouth. “I said I heard you got a little sugar in your tank,” Ian repeated. “How much for a ride?”

Mickey feels his whole face heat, unable to stop his laugh, “Fuck off, you couldn’t afford me anyways.”

“Mm, I dunno,” Ian rolled his shoulder —he’d been doing that a lot; _I slept on it wrong, Mick; I overworked it at the gym; I probably pulled something_. “My boyfriend recently came into some money, I’m sure he’d lend me a few bucks.”

“Just a few bucks, huh?” Mickey huffs as he scans the parlor, “Gonna need more than a few bucks there, tough guy.”

Ian grins, reaching out to pull Mickey closer so he could lean down next to his ear, “What if I promise to make you come _real_ hard?”

Mickey flushed, eyes going a little wide, but he refused to look at his boyfriend and see what he knew was a shit-eating grin. “Christ, you wanna cool it down a little?”

“Rather get you in one of these rooms.”

Mickey rubbed at his bottom lip with his thumb, keeping his voice low, “I just blew you after lunch, man.”

Ian sucked his teeth and, keeping up appearances like they were just having a quiet, _normal_ conversation between themselves while they kept an eye on things, bumped his arm against Mickey’s, “Yeah, I know, but this is kinda getting me going right now. Plus that was _hours_ ago.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and snorted a laugh, “Girls getting you hot now, Gallagher? Should I be worried?”

“Pfft, please. Do you realize how much _fucking_ is gonna be going on?” Ian rested his elbow on Mickey’s shoulder. “All those _noises_ and _skin_ and _come_ , just—”

“Ay,” Mickey elbowed his boyfriend in the side, “I get it.”

“Plus, that suit,” Ian brushed Mickey’s shoulder with the backs of his fingers. “Baby, you look so fucking hot.”

Mickey shook his head and covered up his grin, “Keep it in your pants.”

“Can I keep it in yours instead?”

“ _Ian_.”

 

* * *

 

“Fuck… fuck… _fuck_ ,” Mickey panted, gripping the bannister of the basement stairs. 

Ian gripped his hip hard with one hand, the other reaching around Mickey to jerk him off as he pushed into him. “Better come before —before Angela comes down here.”

Mickey pushed back against Ian, “Damnit Gallagher, don’t talk about… fucking _right_ there, yes, fuckfuckfuck!”

One minute Mickey was going down into the cellar under the house to get another bottle of wine, the next his boyfriend had him pinned, groping and mouthing everywhere he could. Sneaky bastard.

Mickey wasn’t fucking stupid, and he knew Ian wasn’t either —both of them knew. It was happening. It wasn’t just the ridiculous amount of sexual energy stinking up the big house, it wasn’t just the thought of people fucking and flirting and touching, that had Ian all keyed up. Ian was hitting a high, had been for the last few days.

The difference was, now that he’s putting the effort in to take care of himself, it’s okay. Ian’s okay. He’s fine. He’s just… very into health kicks, and organizing the kitchen cabinets, and fucking… so much fucking. The difference is that it’s not so intense with the medication, and he’s got something like a filter now. A pause before he does something impulsive and potentially reckless, where he can say _lemme think about that one more time_.

(And yeah, sure, Ian had evidently blatantly ignored his filter whilst accosting Mickey for a quickie in the basement, but fucking in places where they could potentially get caught _was_ something that they were well-versed in, so… _honestly_ … it could’ve happened either way.)

Mickey doesn’t worry about the highs anymore. He trusts Ian —and Ian trusts Ian. So it’s okay. Ian’s okay. Mickey’s okay. It doesn’t happen a lot, just every so often. The highs aren’t like Everest anymore, they’re more like hills. And the lows aren’t endless pits, they’re swales.

Mickey finishes first, holding back a loud moan, fingers tightening painfully around the bannister; Ian is right behind him, panting mouth pressed against the side of Mickey’s neck. After a moment, they sort themselves out, Mickey grinning at his boyfriend, his boyfriend grinning back at him.

“Good game,” Ian laughs, smacking Mickey’s ass.

Mickey rolls his eyes, grabbing the bottle of wine that should have made it upstairs about ten minutes ago.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, when all the businessmen have retreated to their rooms with their respective girls, Mickey does rounds. Just walking up and down long hallways. The doors are closed, but unlocked, the sounds of slapping skin and moans and giggles filtering out into the hallway. He feels this weird, nostalgic pull, remembering the Rub and Tug —it almost makes him laugh. 

Through all the other noise, the sound of a door opening catches Mickey’s attention. He raises his brows at the girl who pokes her head out —Kali. Thick inky-black hair, brown skin, a perpetual smile on her lips. She was originally one of Angela’s girls; always been sweet and flirty — _very_ comfortable with herself. It was cool.

“Do you have any magnums on you?”

Mickey snorts, hands dipping into his pockets, “Should.”

He gives Kali two of the gold packets, “He behaving?”

Kali nods, “Perfect gentleman.”

“Good,” Mickey says, “Iggy should be by in fifteen minutes, let him know if you need anything, okay?”

“Got it. By the way, you look _really_ hot in that suit,” Kali winks, slinking back into her room. She poked her head out again, “You let me know if you and that hot-ass boyfriend of yours ever wanna _experiment_ a little bit. I’d be _more_ than happy to take on you both.”

“Jesus _Christ_ , would you go fuck that guy, please,” Mickey laughs. “Get outta here.”

Kali winked at him again before closing the door. Mickey sighed, running a hand over his hair. His fucking girls were too much sometimes.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Mickey wakes up to exactly what he expected, an empty bed. He lays there for a minute, under expensive plush blankets and soft pillows, staring at Ian’s spot. The mattress is almost too comfortable to leave, and he has half the mind to close his eyes again and go back to sleep.

But he stretched, sitting up to lean against the headboard, scrubbing his face with the pads of his fingers. One of the most bothersome things about when Ian hit a high was the early mornings —waking up alone. He didn’t like that.

Then the door to the bedroom slowly opened up and Mickey sighed, shaking his head. He sat up a little straighter as Ian came into the room with a tray, “Are you kidding me right now?”

“I had the guy make you banana pancakes,” Ian said. “And fresh-squeezed orange juice.”

“Babe,” Mickey smiled through a groan, feeling his face heat up. He reached out for the tray, helping Ian set it down on his lap. “You didn’t have to do this.”

Ian pressed his lips to Mickey’s, “Wanted to. I’ve been kind of a handful lately, and you were really stressed about this whole retreat thing so… I had someone else make you breakfast so I could look good.”

Mickey snorted, taking a drink of his orange juice, “Well, I appreciate it.”

Ian stood next to where Mickey sat and leaned down, pressing another kiss to his lips, very soft and sweet, and Mickey almost pinched him for it. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Mickey picked his fork up and cut a piece of the pancake, shoving it in his mouth. He groaned from how fucking good they were… probably the best he’d ever eaten, “You gotta get this recipe,” he mumbled through his full mouth.

Ian snorted a laugh, running a hand over Mickey’s head, “Way ahead of you.”

“Good. Sit,” Mickey patted the spot next to him.

But Ian winced, “I gotta go to work… I'm sorry. Lunch today?”

He’d forgotten about that. Mickey’s shoulders fell and he sighed; he just wanted to lay with Ian for a little bit, not having woken up with him. But he nodded anyways, accepting another soft kiss from his boyfriend before watching him walk back out of the room, closing the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

The next four days went about the same. Mickey and the girls left after breakfast, letting the businessmen have their meetings and go over whatever it was that CEO-type guys did on company retreats. Then Mickey came back with the girls. Everyone retreated off to a bedroom, Mickey and his brothers did their rounds… and then he woke up the next day to an empty bed.

He expected the early mornings, but he still couldn't quite get over the sting of waking up without his boyfriend. It shouldn't have bothered him quite so much, but it did. He liked waking up next to Ian, or having Ian wrapped around him, or half under him —even breathing and drooling into the side of his neck. He liked that shit. It made him feel good and safe.

But it would pass. Ian would level back out, and if he didn’t, he’d go to a doctor… a real fucking good one that they could afford now. They’ve been through this, they’ve been through worse. It was okay — _genuinely_ okay.

Plus, Mickey was a big boy, he could handle it, he wasn’t scared of this anymore. So he went about his day, texting Ian here and there, getting pictures of the redhead making silly faces or fucking _clouds_ or a particularly disgusting looking smoothie from his work. 

Mickey took a deep breath while he sat at his desk. He nodded to himself, looking down at his phone, at the picture of Ian sticking out his tongue, eyebrows raised ridiculously high. Mickey grinned, couldn’t help it. He loved Ian Gallagher. Ride or die, right? 

_You’re a dumbass_ , Mickey texted him.

_Love you too_ , Ian texted back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've had a lot os shitty ceo guys, so I thought the girls deserved a break tbh


End file.
